Great Scouring
by Mattwho81
Summary: Tales of the Scouring, in the aftermath of the Horus Heresy can humanity survive?
1. Chapter 1

**The Scouring**

 **Chapter 1: Holocaust**

In the wake of the Horus Heresy mankind was left reeling, war had devastated countless worlds and left nought but ashes behind. The armies of man were crippled and weak, the population starving but worst of all the Emperor was bound forever into the Golden Throne his wisdom and benevolence lost. The few scattered survivors turned on each other, old enmities long suppressed by the Emperor's Legions surging forth once more. Under the shadow of glorious monuments to victory and towering repositories of learning men killed each other for mouthfuls of bread and sips of water.

Gleaming cities burned and with no one left to maintain them most machines rusted away to nothing, machined tools were used as clubs and workshops as shelters from the rain. All the precious knowledge gathered during the Great Crusade was torn up and used in the struggle to survive. Libraries and archives were looted for firewood and all the technological achievements of a thousand generations were torn down in the anarchy.

The only technology that proved resilient enough to survive the carnage were fragments of STC designs, saved by far-sight individuals desperate to preserve even the tiniest part of the power humanity once wielded. Amongst the ranks of the army the rot found true purchase previous comrades in arms waged war upon one another, claiming pocket empires wherever they could. Some fought over territory, supplies and rations but others fought over nothing more than imagined slights and ancient grudges. Those who should have been leading humanity in this dark hour were at each other's throats.

On Terra itself a new wave of madness arose, fanatical cults gathering together amongst the billions of refugees sheltering under the walls of the Imperial Palace. Demagogues and preachers urged the people to embrace faith in the God-Emperor as the path to salvation, only through supreme sacrifice could they draw his attention and make him stand up from the Golden Throne to lead men once more.

Under their cruel lash they competed to outdo each other in mad acts of devotion, lashing and flagellating themselves for days on end. Men whipped themselves until their backs bled and plunged their hands into naked flames as tests of devotion, they cut out their tongues and gouged out their eyes in an attempt to make the Emperor return but he still said nothing.

Convinced that only greater acts of sacrifice would stir the Emperor the cults turned on those would not listen, dragging them from their beds and burning them in mass pyres. Fearful and desperate the people surged to join the cults swelling them to millions, and then they turned on each other. Madness spread through the streets as gangs of cultists hacked and stabbed with crude knives and spears each more determined to prove that they alone knew the Emperor's will.

From out of the darkness came a new threat, Xeno races thought long extinct returned from the shadows of wilderness space and sought vengeance upon the Imperium that had driven them out. They fell upon the helpless worlds of men and unleashed suffering that eclipsed the worst atrocities of the Horus Heresy. Orks and Hrud, Demiurg, Fra'al, Knib, Taiidani, Laer, Quietude, Talestrians, Eldar, Jorgall, Nephilim and some foes too terrible to name all returned and revelled in the carnage.

In desperation the people called out to the few surviving loyalist Primarchs to bring their mighty Legions to save them as in days of old. Yet the brothers hardened their hearts and turned their faces away, they were obsessed with reckoning with their traitor kin, blind to all else but vengeance. From Terra they chased the Traitor Legions into the galactic north, never ceasing their pursuit, leaving the weak and helpless to die uncared for in their wake.

It seemed that mankind's last hour had truly come, that the new day of enlightenment had ended and all that was left to huddle around the last flickering firelights as the night fell upon them. Brother fought brother and friend fought friend as all around swarms of Xeno laughed at the folly of man. Despair and violence spread like a virus infecting all with its taint, the madness was in the air, it was everywhere.

Yet even now there were those who held that humanity, the great species that had risen from the ashes of its own extinction, could fight this new enemy. A valiant band of brothers who gazed upon a galaxy of death and horror yet knew no fear:

They were the Ultramarines.

The last viable fighting force left in the galaxy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Ultramar Endures**

From his mighty fortress on Macragge the Primarch Roboute Guilliman gazed out on the war torn Imperium and knew the galaxy was already lost: he vowed to take it back.

Yet he knew that no single attack could change the course of the war. Theoretical: humanity was beset by a thousand different foes, there was no central leadership to target, no head to cut off the beast.

Practical: Guilliman embraced the unthinkable and split his legion into a hundred different splinters, sending each out to rescue key worlds from the darkness.

To guide them without his presence he gifted them with his new philosophy on tactics and warfare, his epic masterpiece: the Codex Astartes. The Space Marines had never bothered with such tactics before; since their inception their campaigns had always been based on pride and genetic superiority. Simply charging through their enemy's strongest bastions and daring them to even try to stand against the storm.

That had to change and the new philosophy was war unlike any the Astartes had ever fought before, using co-ordination and strategy to turn a small yet diverse force into a power beyond the sum of its parts.

If Guilliman was conservative in his selection of assets he was calculating in their disposal. Not for him the futile stand against unconquerable odds or bloody victory to no purpose. If a position could not be held Guilliman commanded his Marines to fall back to better ones, if a fortress could not be taken he simply bypassed it. He knew when to stand, when to withdraw and when to strike with every weapon at his command. Armed with the new philosophy and unprecedented levels of autonomy the Ultramarines commanders set out into the galaxy.

On countless worlds the XIIIth Legion fell upon their foes, lightning blitzkriegs assaults that tore out the heart of the foes. At the Higgara point they saved the armies of the Vostroyans from an overwhelming Ork Waaagh, on Kallax they gutted the manufactories of the Dark Mechanicum.

The pirate princes of the Eldar were smashed between the hammer of the Astartes Battlebarges and the anvil of Battlefleet solar, the captured Domjons of Perimunda were torn down in a single night of furious assault.

Amongst the stars of the Hyliopolis Arc the Pharaoh-Slaves were captured and executed in a stealth infiltration led by the Ultramarines Captain Aethon. Their last sight being the mysterious monoliths they worshipped destroyed by melta bombs and the supposedly invincible metal-men of their armies simply phasing away.

Planet after planet saw the tread of Ultramar's boot yet wherever they set foot the Marines would not stay long, as soon as the course of the war had been turned they would set off once more into the stars headed for the next crisis.

The Ultramarines were everywhere in this dark time but the tide of horror was beyond comprehension, too many worlds needed salvation and there were not enough Space Marines to save them all. So great was the demand for their skills that the Astartes abandoned their auxiliary human regiments to fight on alone, pressing on from war zone to war zone with break neck speed.

Guilliman responded in the most chillingly ruthless fashion, he personally calculated the strategic value of each world and those deemed unimportant were simply abandoned to their fate. Many Generals and Lords of the Imperium cried out against the harsh callousness of this policy but Guilliman was resolute. The Astartes could no longer be the sledgehammer of the Imperium he claimed, they must become more precise, more Tactical. The Space Marines were too valuable to waste fighting for unimportant worlds they must spend their skills where they were needed most and then move on.

Even then the Ultramarines could not keep pace with the sheer scope of the calamity set before them for every world they saved ten more would slide into darkness. In desperation Roboute Guilliman split his Ultramarines down further and further. From battalion strength they split down into mere chapters, then companies and finally in mere squads they sought to meet the enemy with fury and steel wherever they reared their foul heads.

It was not enough.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 Attrition

Explosions tore at the battlefield turning a pleasant field into a hellstorm of mud, filth and noise, all around were screams and barks of bolter fire as post-humans grappled and died unremarked and unforgotten. In the midst of the carnage sat the outlandish shape of a Damocles command Rhino with its distinctive Vox relay standing miraculously unscathed as the very air around it filled with fire and blood spray.

Inside the armoured tank sat a Legionnary Master of Signal, hunched over a strategium hololith that took up most of the room inside, with the thick trunk of an MIU running into the base of his skull. In the midst of war he sat as calmly as a man reading a good book or taking in a fine sunset, seemingly unperturbed by the explosions rocking the Rhino every few seconds, yet his fingers twitched constantly as his mind sorted through thousands of inputs parsing and retransmitting data from an entire war zone. At the same time his voice constantly droned on, dropping snatches of conversation in a flat and monotone timbre as if he was distracted by dozens of conversations at once.

"91st Errot Dragoons, Brace for impact, supporting orbital bombardment incoming to your sector in ninety seconds... Legionnary Squads Farrent and Saidum you are about to be overrun, fall back to tertiary defensive line...75th artillery battery redirect Earthshakers to target Traitor advance in grid sector 586 mark 638... Maurader squadron 475 abort attack run immediately, you are bombing friendly positions... repeat abort run abort run... Theatre Command: Squadron 475 has gone off mission and is not responding; redesignate Squadron 475 as Excommunicate Traitoris..."

Into this serenity pounded the heavy stomp of a Legionnary in full plate, he was a towering giant even among Space Marines. His helmet was stained blood red as a mark of his seniority and the rest of his armour was stained red as a sign of the death he had seen and wrought that day.

"There you are Valaxian" he shouted, "Where Captain Gregorian, we have pushed back the Traitors but we need him here to lead the counter attack!"

"Captain Gregorian has been out of contact for thirteen minutes Sergeant Talgarn" replied Valaxian in the same monotone voice as before not even stirring from his continuous manipulation of the dataflow.

"Thirteen minutes?" boomed Talgarn, "Then he's as good as dead and us with him!"

"Chain of command with be restored momentarily" replied Valaxian calmly "Until then the new Codex doctrines clearly outline the proper procedures for this situation".

"Codex Procedures?" barked Talgarn ripping free his helm to reveal a face covered with fresh scars and blood, not all of it his own. His snarling features revealed a man who had seen too many good friends die in one day and had not yet wrought enough death to smother the pain. The legendary discipline of the XIIIth Legion was frayed to breaking point and hung by the thinnest of threads as he roared "Don't speak to me about the bloody Codex".

He gestured to the Strategium taking up the bulk of the Rhino and declared, "They sent us up against the 16th Legion here, the Fething Sons of Horus, the thrice cursed abortions of the dead and damned Warmaster! What did they give us to match that, human troops, a meagre thousand Legionaries and a detestable book!"

"A mere one thousand Space Marines, how could anyone expect us to conqueror a whole world with so few men!" He continued his tirade not giving Valaxian a chance to interrupt, "We followed these damned Codex prescriptions and what did we get? Our armies scattered across the continents, abandoning sound positions and falling back to useless ones. Our supporting artillery is stranded out of range, our assault units sitting in bunkers, tactical squads falling back inch by blood soaked inch."

"Are you questioning the Primarch's orders?" interrupted Valaxian fiercely his voice showing emotion for the first time as the blasphemous rage penetrated his Legionary hypno-conditioning.

"Question them?" laughed Talgarn, "I spit upon them! This is a pathetic charade of the wars the XIIIth once fought, where is the glory? Where is the pride? This is not war it is a meat grinder!"

"This is our Primarch's will" yelled Valaxian his own temper finally rising to the fore, "We were entrusted with the work of Guilliman's own hand and we should be honoured to follow its wisdom."

"Open your eyes!" shouted Talgarn, "These prescriptions will see us all dead, we have to take the initiative now not sit here quoting chapter and verse."

"The Codex Astartes does not allow us to engage in reckless bouts of vainglory" snarled Valaxian, "We hold here and have faith in its wisdom to see us through."

"This is insanity!" thundered Talgarn, "Do you really think any man, even a Primarch, can prepare a solution for every conceivable event on the battlefield? Dammit all to the Warp how are we supposed to fight a war using an accursed book!"

"Never question Roboute Guilliman in front of me" snarled Valaxian rising from the hololith fists clenched in outrage.

Talgarn snarled, his discipline a hairsbreadth from snapping, but stopped for something had changed on the Strategium between them. The swirling, scattered units were starting to pull together in a curious pattern. The rampaging Traitor Marines were now scattered across the continent, isolated and vulnerable. But the Ultramarines themselves were what drew his eye; previously falling back units were linking up with seemingly lost assets. In moments firebases and strong points had sprung up out of nowhere, while previously lost artillery and airbases were now in perfect position to rain down destruction. Talgarn saw assault companies in perfect alignment to crush the enemy and tactical support poised ready to fly.

"What, what am I seeing?" whispered Talgarn

"Quite simply the most breath-taking piece of strategic manoeuvre either of us will ever witness" replied Valaxian equally awed.

"How did the Codex do this?" asked Talgarn not quite able to believe the evidence of his own eyes,

"I have absolutely no idea" replied Valaxian returning to his position at the strategium table, "But you had better get your squads into the fight before the Sons of Horus realise what has happened"

Talgarn wasted not moment as he marched down the ramp yelling orders, save to marvel at the genius of his Primarch and think for a moment that perhaps there was yet cause to hope.


	4. Chapter 4

**Holding the Line**

The Ultramarine advance had been swift and decisive, yet the scale of the galaxy made a mockery of their efforts. No matter how many worlds they saved ever more were falling into silence.

Worse the enemies of man had rallied and adapted, the XIIIth Legion began to take serious losses. At Lorenthia the 4th 'Aurora' Chapter was beset by the Death Guard, their signature tanks and heavy artillery being corroded before their eyes by the God of Disease and Rot. The Space Marines were forced to abandon their vehicles and fight a gruelling insurgent campaign without hope of support or evacuation.

From the echoing ruins of the Interex poured the multitudes of the Mega-arachnids, spreading across the stars in deluge of chitin and claws. They were met by a company from the 22nd 'Nemesis' Chapter who greeted them with Rad-missiles and Phospex Bombs. Through callous ruthlessness they burned out the infestation and ended the threat forever though at the cost of two billion lives and a dozen worlds being poisoned forever.

On Pythos the Imperials army united to combat the endless hordes of Neverborn pouring forth. Eventually the Damnation Cache was closed by mysterious figures in silver armour but not before one million men and eight thousand Ultramarines were slaughtered.

Ultramar proved recruits as fast it was able and soon the XIIIth Legion accounted for more than half the loyalist Astartes in the Galaxy. But even this could barely keep pace with the staggering losses suffered in this grinding war of attrition. From every dark corner new enemies emerged and it seemed as if the galaxy itself had risen up to extinguish humanity. At the highest levels of the Imperial war machine it was becoming increasingly obvious that the Ultramarines alone could not save the galaxy.

But then that had never been Guilliman's intent.

Roboute Guilliman was more than a simple warrior; he was a statesman and knew well the value of propaganda. Thus he turned to the one asset he knew was untouched, the Astropathic networks of the Imperium.

These mystic savants could broadcast information across light years and still bound the crippled Imperium together. From the moment he committed his forces to battle Guilliman had ordered them to begin transmitting news of the Ultramarine's victories to every world and battlefront in the Imperium. He gave specific orders that these were not encrypted messages intended for governors and generals rather they were open broadcasts to be disseminated to every soldier, pilot and gunner in the Imperial army.

This was undoubtedly the most callous of manipulations: the most desperate of holding actions were portrayed as stoic defences, every ashen victory a glorious conquest. Every foe slain was heralded as a triumph for mankind, every metre taken lauded as a key stepping stone on the road to ultimate victory.

Constant missives of the Ultramarines actions were sent across the length and breadth of the galaxy and slowly the tales took on a life of their own. Around camp fires and huddled in crumbled ruins men told outlandish stories of the XIIIth Legion and every word was taken as gospel truth by those that heard them. In the minds of men the Space Marines went from being warrior giants to legendary demi-gods, shining angels whose bright wings carried swift death to the enemies of man. As the word spread ever further the armies of man began to rally, soldiers looking up from the ashes and seeing one last chance at glory, one final ray of hope.

Feuding regiments put aside their differences and stood shoulder to shoulder beneath the banners of Macragge. Retreating armies dung in their heels and held against impossible odds wherever the blue and gold arrived. And led by the sons of Ultramar mankind began fighting back against the doom overtaking them.

When the Word Bearers invaded Mordian the Imperial Army under General Contralis stood firm against the Traitors and their Daemonic armies. Across the midnight hives they fought back, never breaking, never ceasing to fight. On the steps of the Governor's Palace Contralis personally held the line with his men against the Word Bearers, refusing every entreaty to fall back. Through sheer bloody minded refusal to admit the possibility of defeat the Mordians held the Traitors' advance long enough for a coterie of Sanctioned Psykers to undo the Daemonic summoning spells and leave the Word Bearers no option but to retreat. Of the planetary population barely one in one thousand had survived the attack: Contralis claimed it was his highest honour to have served the Emperor so well.

When the Talestrians invaded Jorthan the sighting of a single Thunderhawk was enough for the feuding noble houses set aside a three thousand year old vendetta. They opened their armouries and storehouses to feed and outfit the armies of Houses they had been at war with mere days before and as one crushed the Xenos who profaned the Emperors domains. The fact that the sighting of the Thunderhawk was in truth a fabrication by the Administratum was carefully buried and those who knew quietly executed.

At the battle of the Kauros graveyard crews of heretic ships mutinied against their cruel enslavers and seized control of the gun decks of the traitor battleship 'Unending agony'. By the time their overlords had retaken the decks they had targeted and destroyed fifteen rebel frigates. The hole blown in their lines allowed Battlefleet Solar to bracket the fleet and obliterate the Traitors, the battleship's name proved a hollow boast as not one ship escaped.

On the Kallidus plateau the Tallarns refused the order to surrender and fought on for nineteen days and nights against the K'Nib without support or resupply. Their commander attributed their totally unexpected victory to the Emperor's benevolence that sustained his men better than food or water ever could.

Triumph followed triumph and soon the slightest rumour of an Ultramarines deployment was enough to change the course of whole wars. Veritable legions of routed men turning and charging back into hopelessly lost causes for now they could see the path to salvation, they could taste the victory.

Through the most desperate and stubborn of defences the Imperium had managed to hold the line. The blood of millions of martyrs had bought humanity a desperate moment of respite; the balance hung on the finest of scales and the slightest thing could tip it either way.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Jihad**

On Terra a new cult had arisen to dominance amongst the seething masses and insane demagogues: the Cult of the Saviour Emperor. This cult stood apart from the insanity for two reasons firstly a decorated and lauded soldier whom had fought on the walls of the Imperial Palace led it. Secondly it was supported by it's own Saint, Euphrati Keeler, who had stood with Primarchs and Warmaster alike.

Together they decreed the God-Emperor mourned the futile bloodshed of brother on brother and claimed any man or woman who died fighting the alien and the heretic would earn a place in paradise at His side. The Emperor protects humanity they preached, but so too must humanity protect the Emperor and this destiny could only be found amid the fires of battle.

This was an inspiration to the people of Terra, instead of flagellating themselves for their sin of failing to protect the Emperor now they were being offered a chance to serve him.

It was more than a chance at redemption, it was Salvation.

Fired by rabid devotion and zealotry the mobs turned their rage outwards seeking any who defied the divine rule of the God-Emperor. Carried in the bulk holds of dilapidated cargo haulers and empty fuel transports billions upon billions of Imperial cultists spread from world to world. Everywhere they went the priests of this new religion preached to the people, swelling the masses of cultists beyond counting and seeking out the enemies of mankind.

These were neither soldiers nor warriors; they were simple tradesmen, artisans and labourers. They had few arms other than their zealotry, no tactics other than their willingness to martyr themselves and no advantage other than their numbers, but numbers they had beyond counting.

On world after world the Imperial Cultists spread out like a tsunami of flesh, hurling themselves upon the blades of the foe, determined to die for their God-Emperor. Millions upon billions of ordinary men and women charging into the worst hells imaginable and hurling back the darkness with the light of their faith.

This was more than a war, more than a crusade; it was nothing less than a Jihad against all the foes of man.

Roboute Guilliman was deeply unsettled by this development; it stank of the very fanaticism that had seen his brother Lorgar chastised. Still the Avenging Son was above all a pragmatist: Theoretical the Cultists had the numbers and the drive to tip the scales of the galactic war. Practical: all he had to do was stand back and let them.

To impose at least a rough sense of discipline upon the chanting multitudes Guilliman exerted whatever influence he had to promote a core of retired Army troopers and Arbites veterans to act as ad-hoc officer core. These weathered veterans could not hope to control the rabid fury of the Cultists but they could at least direct it, steering it to battles where they could make a difference. They were the nucleus of what would one day be known as the Frateris Templars.

With faith and fury the Jihad swept across the stars, their vengeance on those who stood aside from the fighting even worse than the fate of the enemies themselves. The madness swept across world after world, in every city or hive liberated they would embrace those who converted and burn those who were deemed to lack devotion.

Wherever the cultists set foot men would not dare show anything less than total commitment to the Emperor's cause. Every man was desperate to prove his loyalty, not even the most corrupt dared whisper against the rule of Terra for fear their neighbour would inform the cultists.

Manufactories gifted weapons and vehicles to the cult as signs of good faith, public parks and private warehouses given over as barracks space. Even the richest and most pampered of nobles opened their coffers to fund the Imperial Cult, desperate to keep the braying mobs from their doors.

The Jihad soon took on a life of its own; the more worlds they claimed back the more the Cultists were convinced it was a sign of favour from the God-Emperor. And every world liberated only magnified the power of the Cult. The death toll was beyond reckoning yet the more blood was shed the more the cultists praised the God-Emperor and prepared themselves for martyrdom.

With funds and soldiers beyond count the Imperial Cultists threw back the enemies of man, the Jihad had become an unstoppable tidal wave and nothing could stand against it.

For the first time it seemed the Imperium might do more than merely survive the galactic war, it at last had a chance of winning it.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 Purgation

In the dark smoky gloom of the office was a sigh, it was a sad forlorn sound born from a man of middle age, uniform crisped to perfection and gleaming with general's rank pins. He sighed again and poured a glass of amasec, the dark liquid peaty and aromatic enough to hide the sent of smoke swirling everywhere. Finally he squared his shoulders and faced his adjutant saying,

"Well Toran, lets have it then".

The young man barely had any stubble on his chin and he shifted awkwardly in his newly issued boots, so new and shiny they still squeaked when he moved. He looked at the data slate in his hand and began reading off the casualty lists displayed; it took a considerable amount of time. As the list went on and on General Lorrall turned and gazed out the porthole of his command Leviathan towards the devastation beyond.

Crumbling towers still fumed into the grey dawn and around their bases were heaped piles of the dead. Mighty grey bastions soared above only to be brutally truncated and torn asunder as the ruins of men and machines burned around their foundations. Lorrall gazed at his reflection superimposed on the wasteland outside and saw a man whose hair and moustache carried more grey than he was entirely comfortable with yet his spine was straight and his physique still held tense muscle. His chest was festooned with medals, he claimed to wear them to remind the men of the glory days of the Emperor's Crusade but now among these ruins he wondered why he had ever bothered.

Thirteen decades he had campaigned in the Legions of Terra and in less than two it had all been rendered meaningless, sometimes he wished he had died in the glory days rather than live in this grey shadowy existence. He was just a caretaker now, tidying away the last remnants of humanities grandest endeavour, it had been a dream and like all dreams it had ended too abruptly. General Lorrall was shaken from his self-pitying reverie by his adjutant's last statement.

"Say that again" he said.

Ensign Toran looked up, and said, "There is an emissary here, he wants to talk to you, it seems the militia wants access to the prisoner camps"

General Lorrall grimaced, there it was, somebody had to say it sooner or later… the militia.

"Damned fanatics", he cried, "Bad enough they had to stick their noses into this war, now they want to massacre civilians." Toran looked shamed faced and could not tear his eyes off his squeaky boots, but he managed to mutter, "They did prove useful"

Lorrall threw his glass hard against the nalwood panels of his office so hard it shattered and sent amasec across the wall as he snarled, "Of course they bloody well did; we couldn't possibly have managed without them."

He began to pace back and forth as he ranted, "How else did those bureaucrats back on Terra expect us to take this world, for feths sake we were fighting sodding Astates here. Two years we butchered ourselves on their ramparts and got nothing except mountains of slain soldiers and all Terra ever did was send ever more ridiculous demands for advancement."

"I requested Titans and Macro cannons, they sent me lasguns!"

"Lasguns against the bloody IVth Legion, its such a bad joke its not even funny." Toran cowered back as the tirade continued, "And these fanatics pouring out of every troop ship, they're almost as bad as the enemy. They come out of nowhere and demand to replace us at the front lines as if our efforts had been meaningless, our bloodshed here somehow unworthy. Madmen and zealots the lot of them I only let them through because I didn't have enough barracks to house the torrent pouring in. At least the enemy acts with some shred of sense, but these cultists are just insane, no matter how many the traitors massacred they just kept going!"

"No worse than that the more of them got slaughtered the more rabid the next wave became! They just kept piling on the bodies until they reached high enough that they simply could walk onto the ramparts. Even the IVth didn't have enough bolt shells to hold them all back, if they hadn't escaped through some damned warp gate they'd probably have just drowned under the weight of the dead."

He was cut off mid rant, as his office door slammed open, silhouetted against the bright light was a bearded man, towering and looming over the pair of officers. His face was high and long like some equine beast, his wet sneering mouth full of pointed teeth filed into sharp jagged stumps. He was swathed in orange robes embroided with scenes of figures twisted in paroxysm of joy and pain as bright flames consumed them and atop his head was a burning brazier. Constant flames leapt and danced from his head heating metal rods that clamped down on his skull turning the skin blistered and charred where they touched. He looked down at the frozen pair and hissed "General… at last"

Lorrall looked up in fear at the man looming over him but would be damned before he would show it, "You.. you can't come in here Helboran," he stammered.

The man's lips peeled back in a parody of a smile as he said, "I go where the Emperor wills you should know that. The heretics could not hold against His Will did you really think a god's emissary could be thwarted by a door… or a jail"

"We've been over this" Lorrall said furiously, "Those prisoners are civilians, non-combatants, Light of Terra I will not let you burn innocents at the stake, it spits in the face of everything the Imperial Truth stand for."

Helboran fixed his opponent with piercing eyes, "Innocents?" he questioned, "You dare protect heretics and blasphemours, those scum bowed down to the unholy and the daemonic. They gave succour to the enemies of the God-Emperor and sipped from the chalice of wickedness. Any who stand with His enemies are judged and found wanting in His sight… General"

Lorrall ignore the obvious threat and rallied back "Thrones sake! They were living under the boot heel of Astartes what else were they supposed to do, bleed at them?"

Helboran twitched his mouth and his eyes took on a distant glazed aspect as he quoted "Is it not written that the blood of Martyrs is the Seed of the Imperium".

The two men locked eyes and for the first time Lorrall saw the fires burning in the depths of Helboran's gaze. For a long moment the two stood silent something ethereal passing between them. Then General Lorrall broke his gaze away and sat down hard on his leather chair, "Tell the guards to stand down", he whispered.

"Sir?" stammered the almost forgotten Toran.

"You heard me," muttered Lorrall, "Tell the guards to let the militia into the prisoner camps, tell them to just walk away."

Helboran rose back to his full height and his leer split wide across his face, without even waiting for confirmation he turned and stalked out of the office.

Toran clutched his data slate to his chest and said, "That look in his eye, it was so barbaric, so savage, it was pure madness."

"No" sighed Lorrall shaking his head sadly, "No it was the future" he said and turned back to his amasec determined to get drunk.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 End of Heresy

Far to the galactic north the fires of the Horus Heresy raged on, the Traitor Legions had never admitted defeat and continued their campaign to dominate humanity. They were opposed by the remnants of the Loyalist Legions, battered and bloodied but still burning with the need for vengeance.

The Sons of Horus fought a steadfast rearguard, the loss of their father doing nothing to diminish their skills in war. Their feints and counter attacks were swift and hard, going straight for the throat as had ever been their way. They were chased by the Blood Angels, whose reaction to their own father's death could not have been more different. With incandescent wrath they hurled themselves at the offspring of their father's murderer. Blood demanded blood and they ignored their own wounds to close with the hated foe and unleashed their blackest rage.

The Dark Angels fought a bleak campaign across the circumference of the Eye of Terror crushing and burning all opposition, uncaring for how many innocents were caught in the crossfire. The unexplained loss of their homeworld Caliban and enigmatic disappearance of their Primarch seemed to have unleashed a terrible ire. They fought with the zeal and fervour of those who had seen their hearths and homes burnt before their eyes but all inquiries into the matter were met with flinty stares and bitter silence.

The Death Guard continued their rampage, filling worlds with disease and rot for the delight of Grandfather Nurgle. The White Scars were in hot pursuit, once they had been the hunted but no more, never again would they let anyone else determine their destiny. At their head was Jaghatai Khan whom had a blood debt to settle, he did not know if Mortarion could bleed anymore but he was determined to find out.

The Iron Hands fell upon heretics and Traitors with icy vehemence, seeking to drown the pain of their Primarch's loss in blood. It was not enough, it would never be enough.

The Emperors Children led a merry dance across the stars, pleasing Slaanesh with the horrors they inflicted on the helpless and pure of heart. They were hounded by the Salamanders who scoured away their perversion with the purity of fire. Though few indeed Vulkan was with them for every battle, what his sons could not scorch clean he would smash with his irresistible strength.

The Iron Warriors moved to secure the worlds around Olympia, bitterly digging in and determined to make any intruders pay for every step they took. But ever the more furious and unyielding was the Imperial Fists, advancing in golden waves and tearing down every barrier and obstacle held against them.

The Word Bearers followed Erebus and Kor Phaeron in a swathe of conquests, casting down the symbols of imperial rule and setting up cathedrals to the glory of Chaos. Lorgar himself though retreated into bitter seclusion: his every sacrifice and betrayal had been driven by his belief in the inevitablity of victory. He had set divinity against the atheism of his father and lost, but what truly broke his spirit was that the Ruinous Powers didn't seem to care, in fact they only laughed at his torment.

The World Eaters were leaderless and without direction, heeding only the howls of Khorne to butcher and maim. They were beset on every side by the Raven Guard who through a series of ambushes and daring strikes exacted a terrible revenge for the infamous ninety-eight days on Istvaan V.

The Thousand Sons meandered between library worlds and research outposts, looting all they found, Magnus had foreseen this conflict would last millennia and he had preparations to make. They left in their wake cults of Tzeentch who multiplied like a virus, laying the foundations of a corruption that would plague the Imperium forevermore. When Leman Russ heard of this his rage was staggering to behold, he ordered his Space Wolves' Thirteenth Company to harry the foe and deny them respite. They swore to follow the Traitors into whatever hell they cowered and not return until they had the heads of each of Magnus' sorcerer Lords in their hands.

The Night Lords laughed to see their kin butcher themselves on the altar of vengeance; they cared about nothing but their own self-aggrandisement. Leaving their cousins to their bloodshed Curze led them into the galactic east, to his fortress of bones, he had an appointment with destiny and he did not intend to miss it.

Reports of the Alpha Legion were few and far between, and they seemed to be taking little part in the fighting. The few sightings revealed them to be scouring random worlds linked only by a series of ancient Xeno 'Halting Sites'. A single patrol ship reported sighting their fleet assaulting an unknown vessel that resembled a massive bronze disc. Regrettably in the carnage of war this was just one more mystery that would never be explained.

This war was as terrible and destructive as the worst that the Arch-betrayer Horus had unleashed. Though the high and mighty of the Imperium would prefer to deny it had the Loyalist Legions not continued the fight the Imperium would certainly have fallen.

The situation was finely balanced, the irresistible force met the immovable object and there was no telling which side would win.

Then came the Imperial Cult.

With faith and fury the Cultists hurled themselves at the Traitor Legions, seeking vengeance for their crimes against the God-Emperor. Even the Chaos Marines struggled to hold against the tidal wave of zealotry unleashed against them, the masses seeking to bury them in bodies. No matter what horrors they unleashed the Cultists just became evermore fanatical, wave upon wave of them as endless as the ocean.

The Cult had more bodies than they had bolt shells!

Eventually the Traitors had no choice but to retreat into the Eye of Terror and brood bitterly on the fate they had chosen for themselves.

For his part the Traitor Primarch Lorgar was stunned, this new faith was everything he had ever dreamed of creating, the power of belief was truly unleashed yet he found himself on the wrong end of their Jihad. For the first time he understood his betrayed father's warnings about the perils of setting up gods to serve one's own ends. Twice he had placed in his faith in divinity and twice it had proven too weak to accomplish his goals.

Filled with bitterness and resentment he resolved to spite his new deities and take his own life, but the gods of Chaos are cruel and capricious. They owned him now, body and soul, and were loath to relinquish their new plaything. Even as the blades found purchase in his hearts they poured their power into his mind and body, cursing him with immortality.

Filled with the potency of the warp the new daemon prince screamed his despair; he was now doomed to spend eternity watching the two faiths he had birthed wage endless war upon each other. With the laughter of the Ruinous Powers booming in his ears Lorgar retreated to Sicarius and sealed himself into a towering basilica to brood on his gods' endless failures.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: The New Order**

The heartlands of the Imperium had been secured and a brief respite bought to weigh the costs of war. The tragedy was immense, no census could even begin to count the number of dead and not one world had escaped the carnage. Determined to rebuild what had been lost Roboute Guilliman returned to Terra and was hailed as a conquering hero.

The masses greeted him with jubilation and worship, riotous celebrations sweeping across the globe as their hero returned and the high and mighty of the Imperium bowed before him. The Avenging Son was offered the joint offices of both Imperial Regent and Warmaster and massive protests broke out in every hive calling for him to become the absolute master of mankind.

To his credit Roboute Guilliman refused any such honour, he addressed the masses and declared, " _Too much power has been granted to too few men. Power corrupts and no man, not even a Primarch, can be entrusted with such dread authority ever again_ ".

Guilliman was true to his word and summoned a great council to Terra, formed from the greatest mortal generals and richest princes and manufacturers. He included the heads of every imperial institution: they were the first High Lords of Terra and Guilliman took his place amongst them as an equal.

The need for reform was unanimously recognised, it was not enough to replace heads of institutions, the Imperium need a complete restructuring from the ground up. The new High Lords approved and endorsed Guilliman's policy of decentralising power, splitting the Imperium into five Segmentums: Solar, Tempestus, Obscurus, Pacificus and Ultima. Furthermore they split the Army into two: the Imperial Guard and the Navy, so no traitorous armies could move between worlds and no admiral could conqueror worlds alone.

Every Imperial institution had its role redefined and merchant princes and Rogue Traders were forced to comply with Imperial regulations to better curtail their independence. Critical to this policy was the raising up of the new Imperial Inquisition to positions of unquestionable authority and influence. Even the most vaunted positions of power could not now avoid their penetrating gaze.

Yet the most shocking and controversial decree of all was the High Lord's boldest proposal: the Loyalist Legions were to be disbanded! A new Adeptus Astartes was to be created, formed out of the old Legions these new forces were to be organised into independent Chapters. Henceforth no single commander would lead more than a thousand Space Marines in battle.

This finally proved to be too controversial a demand for the other Primarchs to tolerate, even they could not ignore this insult thus they were finally forced to break off their headlong pursuit of their kin. The Primarchs had been obsessed with hunting down and punishing the Traitors and had been oblivious to the changing times behind their lines.

The people of Terra had seen space marines bring fire and ruin down upon them and billions had died in the siege. Unlike the Ultramarines the other Legions had been absent from the heartlands of the Imperium, fighting distant battles unsung and unacknowledged. To the commonfolk there was little difference between the Loyalists and the Traitors Marines.

First to arrive was Leman Russ the barbaric Lord of Winter and War, the heaving masses greeted him with jeers and scorn but then he was used to that. Next was Jaghatai Khan who took the derision in his stride, ever uncaring for what others thought of him. Corvus Corax however was disturbed by the reaction, if humanity no longer trusted the Astartes then were the halls of power really their place anymore?

However Vulkan was deeply wounded by the crowds' taunts, no other Primarch had such a deep connection to the common folk. The gulf of separation between themselves and the mass of normal people was growing into an unbridgeable chasm. If the Lords of the Imperium could no longer identify with the people they ruled over then what did that mean for the future of this empire pondered the Lord of Drakes.

One by one the Primarchs met the new High Lords in the Senatorum Imperalis and heard their case. Corax and Jaghatai were most impressed by Guilliman's arguments and his tactical philosophies but disquieted by the idea of splitting their legions. They argued instead that new legions should be formed from scratch to replace those who had turned from the light.

Vulkan said while he admired the spirit of the Codex Astartes with his Legion so grievously reduced he could not endorse it. Leman Russ's response was deafening and coarse, several of the senate's minor lords had to be taken away and sedated when he issued his rebuttal.

Without the support of the Primarchs the High Lords could not reach a consensus and it seemed the issue would never reach a conclusion.

Then a new player entered the stage.

Around Pluto, space buckled and tore as something truly massive forced its way into real-space. A veritable forest of gilded spires and flying buttresses heralded the arrival of a craft the size of a small moon. It was a euphoric vision of gold and steel, every inch both beautiful and deadly, with a foredeck that alone could dock a dozen cruisers: it was the Phalanx.

At its helm was Rogal Dorn, the Praetorian of Terra had returned home and he was determined to put a stop to the High Lords foolishness.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9 Brothers Debate**

The chamber was wide and echoing, filled only with a massive table that was gargantuan in proportions. Around the table were twenty one chairs, one a massive gilded throne, two were blank, nine defaced but nine more were pristine and emblazoned with proud symbols.

Seated around the table were a group of figures, the chamber may be massive but it still could barely contain the presence of the beings within. The sons of the Emperor were singular creations; the meeting of even two of them was a significant moment. Three of them meeting would be a moment to be commemorated for future generations but here there were no less than five Primarchs convening.

Corax was a shadow made flesh in his dark armour; even sitting in the light he was somehow distant and obscured. Once the brothers would have met in simpler robes but in these times they had learned the hard way to never let their guard down. The Raven Lord looked around the chamber and remarked, "You know Roboute has an almost identical chamber to this on Macragge, it's amazing how similar you two are in certain ways."

Rogal Dorn was a golden giant, stoic and implacable, one could be forgiven for thinking him a legend raised straight out of the ancient myths. Only those who knew him well would have seen the twitch of an eyebrow at the comment hinting at the simmering anger he held under tight control. "Guilliman's recklessness is why I requested we meet here on the Phalanx" he growled, "While we were fighting to save the Imperium the Eagle of the East launched his own bid for power but we shall not bow to his tyranny."

Vulkan leaned forward from his place next to Corax, his massive plate a masterwork of beauty and functionality. Between the drake bones festooning his plate, charcoal skin and burning eyes he could have been mistaken for a devil from countless dead religions but nothing could have been further from the truth. His voice was a deep rumble as he declared, "Roboute is many things but he is no tyrant, if he does anything you can be assured he has calculated to the tenth decimal place that it is the proper course of action."

"Nevertheless he has embarked upon a path of madness" snarled Dorn "Breaking up the Legions, scattering our forces to the nine vectors, setting up petty clerks to rule."

Leman Russ leant forward his fangs glinting from his jaws; his armour proudly displaying the scars and craters of fierce battle. He wore the fetishes and totems of a primitive warlord but the glint in his eyes belied a deep cunning and self-awareness that few would credit him with. He barked, "Guilliman has a mind like an abacus, he to be stopped, on this at least we are all agreed."

"Are we?" said Corax looking across the table to where Jaghatai Khan was sat.

A place had been laid out for the Warhawk in the fifth seat, next to Leman Russ, but he had deliberately sat on the far side in one of the defaced chairs. Whether it was subtle refusal to be defined by others or he simply didn't care was impossible to say. His plate was austere compared to his kin, even minimalist, but it was masterfully wrought and lost nothing for it. In fact so regally did he wear it he made everyone else look garish in comparison.

The brothers waited for the Master of the Horde to indicate his position but the Khan of Khans said nothing.

Eventually Russ broke the silence and declared "The debating chamber is Guilliman's arena, I shall challenge him to single combat and he shall feel the wrath of Fenris. Break his body and we break his will."

Corax sighed, "Leman your sons are not here, you don't have to play the barbarian around us. This is no time for your boasts and outlandish bluffs"

Leman smiled around his fangs, "You know less than you think young Crow: I never bluff."

Dorn banged his fist upon the table hard enough to create cracks in the granite, "Enough of this petty bickering" he barked, "We cannot afford to fight among ourselves anymore, we must be united in purpose and force: here and at war. Guilliman must be made to see that these ridiculous ideas will only lead to division and weakness"

"Malcador may be gone but his legacy lives on" sneered Russ, "Suspicion, paranoia and obfuscation rule now, these men simply do not trust us."

"Should they?" asked Corax pointedly, "What have we brought humanity except war? We cast down one set of tyrants and set ourselves up in their place"

"You would trust these petty bureaucrats to lead?" snarled Russ

Corax's soft reply conveyed a world of sorrow, "They could hardly do worse than we did".

Vulkan leaned forwards, "You do not know these men as I do, I have seen their hearts and their mettle is soft. They will play the humble servant while Roboute's eye is upon them but as soon as his back is turned they will begin to plot and scheme as the petty kings of Old Night once did. Mark my words without a stalwart guard to ensure their quality they will begin to bicker and stagnate. This whole Imperium will rot from the inside out."

"Then we must save them from themselves" declared Dorn, "We must treat this debate as any other battlefield: gather our allies and hit the foe where they are vulnerable."

Leman Russ smiled, "The Lion once told me some interesting things regarding what Lord of Ultramar has been doing. If you insist on being subtle then there is much we could do with the information of Imperium Secundus."

A sudden crash reverberated around the chamber, Jaghatai Khan's open hand had slapped the table hard, "No." he asserted. The brothers looked at him in surprise as he continued, "Have we no secrets? If we walk road then all shames dragged into light, all suffer, need now harmony not discord."

Vulkan leaned forward his mighty plates creaking "Don't tell us you agree with Roboute?" he asked.

Jaghatai Khan shrugged, an impressive feat for a being in power armour, "Winds change" he said, "Wise men follow."

Corax stood to his feet and leaned forwards hands on the table "I agree with Jaghatai" he stated bluntly, "We always knew the day would come when we would have to step aside and let mankind find its own way. I admit I did not think it would happen this way but the people have told us what they need. If we cannot listen then we are no better than the tyrants we cast down."

Rogal Dorn opened his arms wide in appeasement, "Brothers do not do this, together there is yet hope of setting things right".

Jaghatai pushed to his feet and stood with Corax as the Raven Lord said, "Hope is for poets and dreamers. We choose and we act".

Then they turned and left leaving the three remaining brothers sitting dejectedly,

"There is now no other choice" said Rogal, "we are committed to our course".

"Let us come with you" said Leman, "We shall march into the senate as comrades and show these counting clerks what it truly takes to lead an empire."

"No" replied Dorn, "You have worked hard to build your reputation, your presence would only confirm their worst fears about us. We must look elsewhere for support, Leman speak to the Lord Militants; they at least still respect you. Vulkan you must go to Mars, the patronage of the Mechanicum will be essential in this. I will go to the Palace and confront Guilliman directly; I will force him to see sense".

Leman's face fell at the thought of endless meetings with retired generals and gaggles of aides but he nodded his agreement. They turned to Vulkan who sat in silence for a moment then reluctantly nodded.

"Then our course is set" said Dorn, "This will end where it began: on Terra."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10 Council**

The senatorum was a grand amphitheatre, capable of seating thousands of dignitaries. The vast majority within were pale functionaries, whispering and shuffling as they made clandestine deals and traded favours. At the heart of the arena was a raised dias upon which sat a dozen High Lords, each wearing a simple grey robe. They may have sought humility and equlaity but their uniformity could not hope to hide the giant amongst them.

He was a towering gene-bulked transhuman, his grey robes trimmed with the blue of Macragge's oceans and the sweaping locks on his brow were blonde-white. His simple presence filled the vast Senatorum without him having to say anything and he drew every eye like iron to a magnet.

Suddenly the Senatorum was filled with commotion and all debates ceased as all the guards ran to the great doors. But none of them made it, each and every one stopping in his tracks and standing there slack jawed, weapons falling from limp fingers as a towering golden giant swept past them.

With total disdain Rogal Dorn marched past the guards into the Senatorum. He was a sculpted vision of perfection, his golden armour gleaming and dabbed with perfect tears of ash to mark his grief. His furious gaze swept across the assembled multitudes in the arena but it was to the giant who rose to meet him that he spoke.

"Guilliman" He said his voice simmering with a deeply suppressed rage, "So it is here that you hatched your plots and schemes. Was it here you betrayed your principles too? Was it here you abandoned everything we fought for?"

Guilliman opened his mighty arms in a gesture of welcome, "Brother the galaxy has changed" he said trying to placate his enraged brother, "Our age is past. This is the Imperium of Man, not the Empire of the Astartes, the time has come for men to lead. Mortal men who know humility and whose ambitions are not so perilous."

Dorn's hands twitched fractionally towards the gloriously engraved bolt pistol holstered on his thigh, but he stilled the motion with iron control. He marched forward till the two brothers were face to face as he declared, "Father entrusted us to build his vision, it is our duty to guard humanity. Only we have the strength to take back what was ours, only we have the vision to rebuild what once was!"

One of the grey robed figures around the table sat forward and coughed to interrupt, saying "Lord Dorn, if I may say that everybody here appreciates your efforts in these… errr difficult times… But surely now is the time for rational thought and… and… and impartial… ummm."

Dorn's stare could have melted plasteel: scorching his scorn and contempt into the High Lord's soul. He dwindled off into mortified silence and those around him, without moving or saying anything, tried to imply they werent stupid enough interrupt again.

"Rogal" said Roboute softly trying to reach an understanding with his brother, "The past is past and we must look to the future."

"Victory is within our grasp!" cried Dorn desperately trying to make his brother see the truth, "The Traitors have been driven beyond Cadia and I have fortified the Gates to ensure they shall never return. We can start a new Great Crusade; restore Terra and the glory of the Emperor's rule. Is that why you usurped us Roboute? Because you cannot bear that our glories surpass yours?"

Roboute's own ire was rising and it was evident his temper was fraying in his reply, "Rogal this is not about glory, it is about building an inheritance for mankind that will last millennia. Nothing can endure if it is built upon flawed foundations, had you remembered that, Praetorian of Terra, then perhaps the Siege would have ended differently."

"You dare!" Dorn roared as he loomed forward, his anger at breaking point, "Where were you when the Traitors beat upon the walls of this very Palace? Where were you when we chased them across the stars? You hid amongst your precious five hundred worlds!"

Rogal's furious rant went on "You stand in cowardice and dare to judge us, you who knew the Emperor's vision for the future as well as any of us. Father would never have endorsed this folly."

Guilliman crossed his mighty arms standing firm against this tirade and saying gravely "The Emperor we knew is gone; we must serve the Emperor who is."

"We can still put it back!" cried Dorn spreading his arms to take in the whole auditorium, trying to make them see his conviction, "We can put it all back the way it was!"

Guilliman shook his patrician head and said, "It is too late brother; the decision has been made, this is pure necessity, it is humanity's need that drives us to do this""

"Need?" snarled Dorn, "What need drives you to act like a whipped dog? You let them shatter the Legions! You let them pull your teeth! You would sell us all into slavery; we were created to lead humanity into the stars not lick its boots."

Dorn raised his gaze to look across the senatorum and every lord and functionary felt his burning gaze upon them, "Not one of you here even knows how much blood, how many lives we have sacrificed to keep you safe in your ivory towers. All you quill pushers and counting clerks should be prostrated before us in gratitude."

Guilliman's next words would set in motion a catastrophic series of events.

"You sound like Horus."

Dorn's fist blurred, one instant he was at rest the next he was he was an oncoming juggernaut of gold. The blow would have caved in a space marines' skull, it would have dented a Rhino hull, it actually knocked Guilliman back a step.

The Lord of Ultramar stood there in shock, hand clasped to his bruised jaw unable to believe the stoic Praetorian of Terra would act so.

Dorn yelled, "You have no authority over my Legion and I will prove our worth in battle! There is one Traitor who has yet to flee into that warp abortion beyond Cadia; he squats in the Sebastus system mocking our manifest victory."

Dorn turned to address the whole audience, "I shall personally dig him out and when I bring Perturabo back in an Iron Cage you will see I am right and forget this foolishness"

With these words the golden Primarch turned his back on the council and marched once more to war.


	11. Chapter 11

**The Iron Cage**

On the world of Sebastus IV Perturabo and his Iron Warriors had set about building a mighty bastion called the 'Eternal Fortress'. This impenetrable citadel was both an act of defiance and an obscene act of mockery

Built out of grey stone and wrought iron was an exact replica of the Imperial Palace on Terra, every detail perfectly reproduced save that the milling crowds and defence militia were formed of mutants. Perturabo's intent was writ large for the galaxy to see, that he could succeed where Rogal Dorn failed, defend what the Praetorian of Terra could not.

Perturabo had sent a message to his brother: if he had been chosen to fortify the Imperial Palace the Emperor would still be animate. Rogal Dorn was incensed by this outrage; the Traitors had lost their war yet here they were flying their flag on an imperial world as if they had some right to be there.

Here was an opportunity to prove the worth of the old Legions, and crush the reforms sweeping the Imperium. With this victory Rogal would humiliate Guilliman and drive him back to his precious Ultramar in shame.

The Imperial Fists had suffered grievous casualties in the siege of Terra and the hard years of fighting since but Dorn was adamant. He still commanded twenty-one thousand Astartes, now second only to Guilliman's Legion in terms of numbers and he gathered them all for this one assault.

Rogal Dorn expected honourable battle but that was not Perturabo's agenda at all.

The Iron Warriors waited below the surface for the first shots of the Imperial Fists orbital barrage. As soon as it commenced they replied with a number of remote weapons silos located in the grounds of the replica Eternity Wall and Lions Gate spaceports. The VIIth reacted in a predictable manner by launching a full combat drop against the space ports. The objectives were swiftly secured and the loyalists began a full scale deployment, landing vast quantities of supplies and ordnance expecting a prolonged siege.

Their expectations would be cruelly shattered.

Once they were fully committed atomonic charges were detonated across the continent throwing millions of tons of debris into the stratosphere. Day turned to endless twilight and the Imperial Fists realised they were completely cut off from their fleet in orbit.

The detonation was the signal for the Iron Warriors' fleet to attack. The Traitors armada were no stronger than the Loyalists fleet but the Imperial Fists themselves were on the planet's surface. The ships crews tried to hold out, but they were assailed by Astartes boarding parties and forced to retreat. After a few hours the only targets being engaged on the planet were co-ordinates pre-planned by Perturabo.

Under fire from space, the VIIth Legion proceeded to advance on the Eternal Fortress on a four-company front. Perturabo watched from an observation tower and methodically began to destroy them.

For the Imperial Fists it was like walking through a reoccurring nightmare. The Eternal Fortress was a perfect replica of the Imperial Palace, as familiar to them as their own amour. Every detail was exact, every gun and gate in the exact alignment as it had been in the Siege of Terra. Most of the Astartes had been present for the culmination of the Heresy and were horrified to be reliving it, except now they were the attackers and the Traitors the defenders.

Across the length and breadth of the Eternal Fortress battle was joined, noble golden warriors battling mutants and Traitors at every corner, corridor and cross roads.

Across the ramparts of the false Primus gate the Imperial Fists infantry stormed against thousands of mutants who sang songs of dead Olympia. They were supported by the dregs of the IVth legion, half-dead cybernetic by-blows, gun-servitors, disgraced squads and Contemptor-Cortus dreadnoughts. The battle raged for a day and a night before the Loyalists broke through the Gate only to discover that while they were distracted Possessed Marines had infiltrated their forward bases and detonated vast quantities of ammunition reserves.

In the faux Temple Square the Iron Warriors launched a mechanised counter attack. Rogal Dorn sent an assault company to meet them but when the two foes collided the Imperial Fists discovered the few Traitors present were but a cover for Rhinos overloaded with explosives. The force of the blast was visible across the length of the Eternal Fortress slaying everyone present and levelling a district the Fists had spent eleven hours securing.

At the fake Annapurna gate a kill-Team of Fists' sappers were horrified to find that Perturabo had anticipated their route and pre-positioned a vast series of mutant latrines. These middens were mixed with a vile daemonic acid that ate through armour seals and rebreathers leaving one hundred Astartes to drown in a lake of reeking sewage.

Confronted by the great weight of the ersatz Saturine Gate the VIIth Legion unleashed a column of super-heavy Falchions, Cerberus destroyers and Sicarian Venators. Their combined firepower brought the gate down only to find Perturabo had already positioned his three Ordinatus Diamat behind it. The first salvo of the Continental Siege guns annihilated half the forces besieging the gate. Stoic as ever the Imperial Fists' return fire destroyed one siege engine but the second and third barrages left no survivors and also no stone standing upon another for a straight mile.

In the precincts of the City of Sight the Imperial Fists waded through an army of mutants slaughtering their way forwards inch by blood soaked inch to reach the Conduit. Yet the moment the first Loyalist set foot upon its steps Perturabo detonated seismic charges in its foundations and brought the entire edifice down upon their heads.

Rogal Dorn was the greatest master of siege in the Imperium but he was operating from a flawed assumption. Every fortification is limited by the need to protect something but Pertuarbo cared about absolutely nothing but humiliating his foes. He deliberately allowed whole districts of the Eternal Fortress to fall to the Loyalists advance only to bring them down on their heads. He sacrificed hundreds of his own sons to bait traps and snares but did not care as long as the butchers' bill was on his side.

By the sixth day of the battle each Imperial Fist fought virtually alone, Dorn's troops were reduced to burrowing into the dirt and piling up the dead bodies of their brethren for cover. They had not even reached the Investiary and already their casualties were on the wrong side of horrific.

Still Perturabo remained patient, he allowed Dorn to rampage beneath the walls calling his name and demanding personal combat. Perturabo had no intention of doing something so stupid; he knew that the sight of their Primarch's impotence would demoralise the Imperial Fists more than he ever could.

Imperial Fists had burrowed into the killing zone and were unable to escape, although his captains called for a breakout Rogal Dorn would not give the order. He refused to concede that victory was beyond them, that Perturabo had outmanoeuvred him.

He would die before admitting that the doctrines that had served him so well throughout the Crusade and the Heresy had been found wanting. Above all he could not admit that he had made a mistake: that Guilliman had been right and he wrong.

Unable to abandon their Primarch the Imperial Fists prepared to die with him.


	12. Chapter 12

**BeSieged**

In the shadow of a great wall an Imperial Fist rested, leaning back to catch a moment of rest in an eternity of carnage. He was a grizzled veteran with armour so heavily battered the gold of the VIIth legion was barely visible. His bolter was gone, lost days ago, now he had only a short blade and bolt pistol with one single clip left. He bore a Sergeants' markings and across his pauldron was carved the name Gaudian.

Gaudian stood there wheezing, even his transhuman biology stretched by weeks of constant fighting, looking up at the wall he was leaning against. It was a perfect recreation of Daylight wall, his own assigned defence cordon and he felt lost in some waking nightmare to be here trying to breach it. This was a favoured spot by novices, a place where they could duck out their trainers' sight for a moment to carve their initials on the wall. The facsimile was so perfect even the carvings were present and Gaudian could swear his own initials were swimming before his visor. Lost in his trance he wondered at the sheer detail that had gone into it, was it pure obsession that drove such meticulous workmanship or had darker powers been involved?

He looked down at his battered plate a suit of Mark II Crusade armour, it lacked the brutality of the Iron pattern the sophistication of Maximus plate or the versatility of Corvus armour but he would never be parted from it. For fifteen decades it had served him faithfully and he had often boasted he would be dead before he gave it up: he wished he knew how right he had been about that.

Over to his left he saw an Imperial Fist beset by a dozen mutants, fending them off with nothing but a blunted combat blade. It was Novak, the youngest member of his squad with a face too young to shave and armour that still gleamed; well it had before they were caught in this deathtrap.

Gaudian was entranced by Novak's graceful movements as he whirled and spun, his blade flashing as it stabbed and sliced mutant flesh. He had taken his helmet off exposing his cropped blonde locks and sculpted features which were an artist's vision of perfection. There had been rumours of loyalist splinters from the Traitor legions being assimilated but it was only after he met Novak that Gaudian could bring himself to believe some of Fulgrim's get might have slipped in unnoticed.

So tired was Gaudian that it took him almost two whole seconds to realise he should intervene, an unforgivable lapse any conditions. He shook off his introspection and stepped forward to engage but he was to pay dearly for his moment of distraction.

From nowhere a blast of ravening energy caught him full on in the chest, the sheer heat boring through his chestplate like a drill and burning his flesh beneath. The force of the blast threw him back hard into Daylight wall and smashed free stone work that fell upon him as a hail of rocks, denting and chipping his armour. He lay broken upon the ground, his right arm buried under a pile of loose debris, left arm flung out and he realised the impact had flung bolt pistol just out of reach.

Gaudian lay starring at the ash grey sky as his helm flashed constant warnings of armour damage before his eyes, he could not catch his breath and he could feel something moving in his chest where nothing should be. His body burned hot as his superhuman physiology tried to piece him back together but it would take precious minutes to do so; time Gaudian knew he did not have. He reached out his left hand, fingers straining to clasp the grip of his bolt pistol, but a massive iron-clad boot slammed down pinning his arm into the ground.

He looked up and saw a Chaos Marine looming over him, blotting out the twilight sky, a steaming Volkite charger gripped in his gauntlets. Gaudian's autosenses fed him streams of nonsense data as it tried to identify weak points on the Traitors' plate, confused by the medley of armour Marks and twisted organic blooms. Worst of all was the Chaos Marines' face, exposed to the wind and dust, hideously bloated and weeping sores with nubs of nascent horns running along the left side. His grin was wide showing blackened teeth and he did not even attempt to hide his enjoyment at the situation.

"Look here one of the high and mighty Imperial Fists rolling around in the dirt with the worms" laughed the Iron Warrior, "How the mighty have fallen".

"Traitor" gurgled Gaudian as he tried to reach for his pistol but the Iron Warrior only drove his boot down harder cracking the ceramite gauntlet.

"It is always the same with you arrogant scum" snarled the Iron Warrior, "Letting others do the dirty work then coming in to steal all the glory, thinking yourselves so proud and honourable. Well now I Karkain am the one standing tall and your Legion is the one dying in the mud"

Gaudian gasped for breath and hissed, "You betrayed us, you betrayed the Emperor".

"He betrayed us!" roared Karkain, "He used us and then cast us aside. Did you never stop to think what he intended to do with us after our usefulness ended? We would have been discarded, bereft, everything we won given over to petty mortals".

"You lie" wheezed Gaudian,

The Iron Warrior sneered "Enough of this, when you reach hell tell them it was Karkain who had the glory of killing you".

"That is where your kind always goes wrong" Gaudian wheezed as a drop of blood gathered at the corner of his mouth, "War is not about Glory or Honour or even Pride".

"Really? Well then why don't you educate me oh great and mighty Lord. Come tell me what it is about." sneered Karkain leaning down to place his ears next to Gaudian's bloodied lips.

Just as his head came level with the ground Gaudian's right arm exploded out of the rubble clenching a heavy rock in his fist. The weight of it caught the Iron Warrior in the side of his head, shattering teeth and breaking reinforced bone, hurling him off the Imperial Fist. In a flash Sergeant Gaudian was upon him, grasping the rock in both hands hammering it into the Traitors' skull over and over in a furious piston action.

On the first blow the Traitor was dazed, on the third blow his skull cracked, on the sixth blood sprayed out with every impact. Gaudian kept smashing his enemy over and over, the golden armour of his arms soaked red up to his elbow. He did not stop until there was nothing left but a sickening puddle of gore above the Iron Warriors' gorget.

He rolled over and lay on the dirt gasping for breath until at last he had strength enough to mutter, "It's about Winning".

Up the slopes of rubble came the pounding of armoured feet, Gaudian groaned as he grabbed the disguarded Volkite Charger and forced himself to sit up but it was young Novak who came running. His own armour was splattered with greenish mutant blood but his beautiful face was unscarred and his blonde hair waved in the breeze.

"What happened here?" asked Novak putting one shoulder under Gaudian's arm to help him to his feet.

"An object lesson for you young one" replied Gaudian as he steadied himself, "you can fight or you can gloat, not both".

"I understand sergeant", said the young novice holding the Sergeant up.

"Good let's see if anyone else is alive out there" Gaudian said limping slowly forward one painful step at a time "and Novak there is one more lesson to learn from this idiot".

"Yes Sergeant?" replied the young Marine.

"Get your damn helmet back on" he growled.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: Rescue**

If Perturabo had one failing it was that he had grown to enjoy tormenting his enemies too much. He could have finished off the Imperial Fists at any time but chose not to, preferring to pick them off one by one and see them suffer.

It would be a costly mistake.

High above the Iron Warriors' fleet was engaged in planetary bombardment operations, confident in its total void supremacy; then ships started exploding. Three cruisers and a battleship were annihilated before the shocked fleet detected torpedoes moving at near light speed through their formation.

Close behind an armada of Astartes battle barges and strike cruisers powered up and began furiously decelerating to engage in a perfect Corvo manoeuvre.

Their hulls were an eclectic mix of Macragge blue, along with unknown heraldry of silver, green, yellow, white, black, red, purple and gold. Icons as bizzare as they were varied were emblazoned on their hulls and for many it was the first time thay had been seen in combat. Lord Guilliman had come to the rescue and brought the Second Founding Chapters with him.

Swarms of boarding torpedoes and cestus assault rams hurled the Novamarines directly into the bowels of the enemy fleet. They seized gun decks and command bridges, turning their own weapons back upon the Traitors shattering their formation. Into the gap drove the mighty battle barges, unleashing broadside after broadside at point blank range. At their head Macragge's Honour swung along the Iron Blood beginning a duel that would become a legend in naval annals.

Seizing the moment the successors' strike cruisers dared the gauntlet of fire to swing into low orbit and began disgorging waves of Astartes straight into battle. Hard on their heels the Astartes of the Eagle Warriors flew interdiction sorties in their Thunderhawks and Stormbirds, keeping the Chaos Marines attack squadrons at bay.

The first wave consisted of the entire Praetors of Orpheus Chapter in a codex perfect drop pod assault upon the Eternal Fortress' anti-air batteries, braving a blizzard of flak and missile contrails the Astartes plummeted into battle as pods exploded all around. Though they took heavy casualties before the first brother even set foot on the ground their subsequent charge silenced the guns allowing massive waves of drop ships and Tetrarch heavy landers to descend unopposed.

Through the dust and soot laden atmosphere the drop ships dived hard, their engines clogging and choking on debris in the stratosphere. Ancient and precious Stormbirds and Tetarch landers that had served since the dawn of the Unification Wars were burning out in the reckless rush but the Successors cared not. Brothers were dying and nothing would stand before them, if a drop ship could survive one or even two runs back to orbit they were pressed into service and damn the consequences.

The Patriarchs of Ulixis hit Lions Gate spaceport hard and dug in, keeping tens of thousands of mutants at bay while the other Chapters advanced. At Eternity Wall spaceport the Sons of Orar were confronted by Iron Warrior breacher squads, they jumped from their drop ships into knife fight range and proudly demonstrated their with superiority with a blade.

From the spaceports the Ultramarines charged at the point of the spear, crushing all opposition in a perfectly executed armoured assault. They advanced and secured, over and over as the Codex demanded and with mechanical precision created a secure corridor for the other Chapters to move up and assault the Eternal Fortress directly.

First past the ruined gates were the White Consuls and the Black Consuls fighting back to back, covering each other as brothers. Their combined might crushed a phalanx of Tyrant Siege Terminators that had been poised to obliterate the last survivors of an Imperial Fist company. High above the Hawk Lords swooped over the Eternal Fortress in their Xiphon interceptors, their labouring engines streaming smoke behind them as they cleared the skies of winged mutants and Heldrakes. Meanwhile their Fire Raptors flew so low they knocked free stonework with the backdraught of their engines as they rained down destruction upon concentrations of enemy forces.

With the skies secured the Doom Eagles dived from on high with wings of fire blazing from their jump packs. They fell upon Temple square where the Iron Warriors prized assault companies were unleashing a dire wrath upon the scattered remnants of the Imperial Fists. The Traitors fought back hard but each Doom Eagle had accepted his own death and fought with the desperate fury of men expecting to die. The Iron Warriors had not anticipated such frenzy from the children of Guilliman and despite overwhelming numbers were driven back into the ruins.

At the centre of the battle the Iron Warriors faced the Ultramarines themselves in a nightmare of grinding ,stabbing bloodshed. Despite all their valour the Ultramarines were desperately outnumbered and were swiftly surrounded on all sides. Just as all seemed lost a fresh force surged into the carnage to catch the Traitors in a murderous crossfire. It was the Genesis Chapter and they had sworn that they would always stand by their progenitors in their hour of need.

Along the flanks the Inceptors met the Iron Warriors' fast moving predators and bike squadrons with fluid manoeuvres of their own. Swift strikes and rapid redeployments drove off the attackers and any man who saw them fight that day would have sworn it was simply impossible to catch the Inceptors in a trap.

Behind the advance of the other chapters the Iron Snakes fought in individual squads, fending off packs of mutants that were hunting rescue parties. Safe behind the perimeter serfs and servitors swept through the rubble, clearing debris and digging up fallen buildings to pull out individual survivors. Through these humble, oft overlooked duties, they saved hundreds of marines that otherwise would have been left behind to die.

With the battle in full force the Libators Chapter broke off and infiltrated through the ruins to approach the Iron Warriors' infamous Stor-Bezashk artillery. Achieving total surprise the Libators killed every Traitor they found and spiked the Daemon guns winning a victory that would see their names hailed across the galaxy.

The Second Founding Chapters had penetrated deep into the battleground and beaten back the Traitors yet it was but a momentary respite. The Iron Warriors were still Astartes and yet held the advantages of numbers and position; soon they would rally and crush the invaders in an unstoppable tide. The Second Chapters' objective though was never to grind the Chaos Marines down through attrition but rather to hold open a narrow evacuation corridor for the VIIth legion to disengage.

However there was a problem: the Imperial Fists refused to fall back.

Deep in the ruins Rogal Dorn argued with his Captains, rebuffing every plea to give the order to retreat, he was convinced that this was an opportunity to push onwards. In denial he still thought victory was yet possible and without a direct order no Imperial Fist would take one step back.

Despite all the heroics seen that day it appeared the battle of the Iron Cage was destined to end only one way.

It was in this moment that a gloriously engraved Stormbird broke through the thick cloud cover and dived hard towards the Primarch's position; Roboute Guilliman was coming to save his brother and he was not prepared to take no for an answer.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: Evacuation**

In a ruined plaza stood four giants, amidst the piles of rubble and broken corpses the Transhumans were shining, golden avatars of perfection. Three of them would have towered over mortal men but the fourth made even them seem small, like pale reflections of the sun, for he was a Primarch, the Praetorian of Terra: Rogal Dorn.

He faced away from his sons into the ruins as they shouted back and forth in a heated argument that had clearly been raging for some time.

The first was shaven headed, his golden armour trimmed with black and white with a magnificent sword at his belt, his name was Sigismund and he was shouting, "Captain Katafalque is behind schedule, Dantalion signal him that he should have reached his primary objective an hour ago!"

The second marine stood in armour that had been scorched bare like he had been standing in the path of a blowtorch leaving blank ceramite and shouted back "Katafalque's company is enveloped on three sides, they struggle to survive let alone advance. His company will stand until the last man but that won't be long, then the entire left flank is gone!"

"Then signal Captain Rythan to move up in support" snarled Sigismund,

"Impossible" said the third, a giant among giants, almost as tall as Rogal Dorn himself, with arms stained red with the blood of Traitors.

"What do you mean Pollux?" asked Sigismund.

"Rythan was overrun thirty minutes ago, his whole company is dead." replied Alexis Pollux.

"Rythan's gone?" said Sigismund quite startled "then exactly what reserves do we have left?"

"There are None" replied Pollux in a voice of doom

"This situation is beyond saving" stated Dantalion saying what they all knew to be true in their hearts, "We must fall back and consolidate, get as many men out as we can".

"Retreat?!" cursed Sigismund, "We are the Imperial Fists! What kind of Marine are you to suggest such a thing?!"

"Open your eyes, we are dying on our feet here", yelled Dantalion, "The only thing holding the line together right now are Guilliman's Successor Chapters!".

"Mongrels" snarled Sigismund, "They have disgraced their Emperor approved colours with this folly".

"Mongrels or not they are the only thing standing between us and a pointless death!" bellowed Dantalion, "Our options now are between an orderly withdrawal and total annihilation. Pollux surely you can not agree with this blinkered madness, you must see we have to fall back".

Pollux crossed his blood stained arms and said, "Our Primarch has not given me any such order" he said with finality.

They all turned to look at their golden Lord but continued to gaze into the distance and said nothing.

"Brothers see sense" pleaded Dantalion, "We are beaten today but there will be other days, other battles. If we fall back now in good order we can still prevent a total Rout."

"We must have agreement before we can issue such a command" replied Pollux firmly.

"I will die before I give such an order" snarled Sigismund.

They were all shocked into silence as Rogal Dorn drew a slow breath and uttered, "The Emperor's own will not yield before Traitors. No retreat, no surrender."

The assembled captains stared at their gene-father then Dantalion said, "Well... that's the end of that then".

Pollux was not listening but looking up at the sky as a large shadow passed over them and said, "I am not so sure; I think He may yet have something to say."

From the skies swooped a massive Stormbird, every inch gloriously engraved and enamelled the deepest ocean blue. It fell upon the plaza with thruster downwash knocking loose stonework and swirling up cyclones of dust. It filled the plaza yet still seemed insignificant compared to the being that was jumping from its opening hatch.

He was every inch a Son of the Emperor from the magnificent workmanship on the Armour of Reason, to the mighty Hand of Dominion on his arm, to the white blonde locks on his brow. He was the match of Rogal Dorn in every way but where the Praetorian of Terra was resolution and defiance made manifest Roboute Guilliman was precision and rationality incarnate. And at his side hung a truly wonderous blade.

He strode past the officers straight up to his brother and called out, "Rogal what are you still doing here? You should be halfway to orbit by now!"

"You are wearing Father's Sword" replied Dorn gravely.

"What?" said Guilliman taken aback by the non sequitur.

"His Sword" growled Dorn, "Why are you wearing it?"

Guilliman returned a worried stare and said, "It was functional".

"It is not yours to wear" snarled Dorn

"You would prefer I left it to gather dust in some reliquary?" barked Guilliman, "Rogal we have no time for this, I am here to evacuate you, not argue".

"Arrogance and Presumption" stated Dorn harshy, "I should have expected no less from one who usurps the Imperium itself."

"Rogal what are you saying?" said Guilliman.

"I am saying you should leave" growled Dorn, "My Legion is staying to finish this fight".

"Are you deluded?" shouted Guilliman, "You cannot believe you can defeat the IVth Legion here today".

"No" stated Dorn fatally, "We Can not".

Roboute was taken back, "You would die here for the sake of Pride?" he said in disbelief.

"For Principle" snarled Dorn, "You may have your damned Practicals but my sons understand what it is we truly fight for".

Sigismund stepped forward and declared, "The Traitors must be made to understand there shall be no mercy for them, no respite from the vengeance of the Emperor. That we die is unimportant for we shall send a message to the whole galaxy: No Pity, No Remorse, No Fear!"

"Go Roboute", said Dorn firmly, "Take your mongrel Chapters and my sons will show you what it means to live and die as servants of the Emperor."

With that Rogal turned his back on Roboute and faced stoically away into the ruins. Thus he was totally unprepared when the Hand of Dominion swung around and caught him across the back of his head.

The blow was a sledgehammer of force and had the fist's power field been active it would have sprayed his brains across the plaza. As it was the impact of the blow sent him spiralling into the dust totally unconscious.

The assembled officers stood dumbfounded over the prone Primarch as Roboute shook some feeling back into his hand. Dantalion stepped forward and opened his mouth but he never got to say what he intended for Guilliman pierced him with a gaze that could have shattered bedrock and the Marines saw the depths of anger that he kept under rigid control.

For long seconds they stared at each other and then the Captains broke eye contact, Sigismund was the last but then even he lowered his gaze and submitted to the Avenging Son's will.

"Lord Dorn has been relieved of duty" said Guilliman, "You are now in command, give the order to fall back and evacuate".

"Sir, with respect, you do not understand our Legion" said Dantalion eyeing his unconscious Primarch "Our Lord commanded us to hold our ground and without a direct order from him there are no words that will make an Imperial Fist step back".

The Eagle of the East said nothing only turning his head and giving Captain Pollux a knowing stare.

In response Alexis put his hand to his vox mix and said "All VIIth Legion forces this is Captain Pollux, Lord Dorn is injured, I repeat Rogal Dorn is down. Our Primarch requires urgent medical evacuation, he needs you to fall back immediately and form a rearguard".

He turned to the Lord of Ultramar and said, "That will get them moving".

"Good" said Guilliman picking up his unconscious brother as easily as a rag doll, "We have minutes before Perturabo moves to block our extraction, co-ordinate a fighting withdrawal, wounded first then anyone who can walk. Forget heavy equipment, today we save lives; then get yourselves on a gunship. Sigismund no theatrics about being the last man to leave the planet, the Imperium needs you alive".

Then he carried his brother up the ramp of his stormbird and in a howl of thruster downwash the Primarchs were gone.


	15. Chapter 15

The chamber was dark and echoing, filled with shadowy ruins and the crackles of fire burning low in the hearth. Into this desolation marched two figures with heads held high, one was giant, even for an Astartes, with fists still flecked red with blood despite repeated cleansings. The other walked in armour scoured clean of all colour and insignia, bare plate attesting to the fires he had marched through.

The two Astartes gazed around the room and surveyed the wreckage. Strewn around were the remnants of Rogal Dorn's personal items, desks and precious manuscripts torn to shreds and pieces of glorious armour thrown so hard they had embedded into the marble walls.

Slowly they advanced through the darkness until they found the Primarch himself, forlornly gazing at a stained glass rendition of the Emperor, the only intact thing left in the room. His body was covered in sweat and his chest heaved as testament to the rage that had coursed through him upon awakening to find himself back on tthe Phanlanx. As ever he wore a stoic mask of control but it was cracked and for the first time one could see the anger and sorrow behind it.

The two Astartes stood there until without looking around Rogal at last said, "Alexis Pollux, Oriax Dantalion…you should not be here."

Pollux bowed and said, "Sir, we have come to express our concerns regarding the state of the Legion: the companies are shattered and these last few weeks there has been a dangerous trend towards cults of personality forming around the surviving Captains. Unless you step in the Legion will be torn apart with ideological divisions".

Dantalion stepped forward and said, "Sigismund is inundated with fanatics and zealots begging to join his Templars. The recruits are following Pollux here like chicks around a mother hen and Katafalque is encouraging the men to engrave the damage to their armour and display it as badges of honour".

Dorn turned his head to look straight at Dantalion, his question obvious, the Captain stood ramrod straight and declared "I tell the men to get back to their drills, that their Primarch will return soon and will not be impressed with such laxity".

"How can I face my men after this?" said Dorn looking away to the dying fire, a hint of self-recrimination edging his voice, "We had a chance at finishing this war once and for all but it was stolen from us, stolen by that accursed brother of mine. At least the Traitors had the daring to outright try and kill me not inflict this humiliation".

"Sir, you are not alone in your anguish" said Dantalion, "The men are confused and demoralised and they need their Primarch, now more than ever. You are a more than a warrior, you are a leader of men and you do not have the luxury of wallowing in self-pity".

Rogal's head snapped back and he snarled with a dangerous tone, "Have care, I am not Russ to allow my subordinates to speak to me thus, you risk more than your command addressing me so".

"Much must be risked in war" said Dantalion briskly, "The man who is not prepared to risk his life is guaranteed to lose it".

"You think we are at war?" said Dorn,

"Of course sir" replied Dantalion, "Despair is the greatest enemy of all and this surrender to it shames you".

In a heartbeat the primarch leapt to his feet, looming over them and for a moment they saw how deeply his grief and ire truly ran. He bound it in chains of duty and obedience but it was every bit as dangerous as Angron's rage or Horus' ambition, more so for he focussed and channelled it with laser intensity.

This was the power that had driven him to strike down Alpharius and stand undaunted against the Traitors on the walls of Terra. The Captains saw how thin Rogal's control over his emotions had worn and with it the realisation that they were in as much danger now as when they stood within the Iron Cage.

Pollux however refused to be daunted, willing to risk all to speak truth to his lord, "Sir, this path was set for us seven years ago, born out of your grief for your father, grief we all share. But for you there is more, you grieve for the dead future, for the ideals that fell with him".

Rogal Dorn threw his fist against the wall so hard marble shattered and chips ricocheted off the Marines' armour, "I failed!" he roared at last giving voice to the knowledge he had been denying in his heart. "Worse than at Terra, worse than when I let the Traitors slip past Cadia. I swore to end this Heresy once and for all even if it cost me everything but now it will rage eternally, we will never be free of Chaos!".

"My Lord, the Iron Cage was never the ending you hoped it would be, it was something greater: it was a beginning." replied Dantalion consolingly, "It was a crucible, the purging of the past to leave the purity of something new. Future generations shall know it was rite of passage for the forging of something greater".

"How?" snarled Rogal Dorn, "How exactly do we move on from this?"

"Perhaps by accepting the help of others", replied Dantalion, "Your brother came to save you despite all your harsh words, he did this not out of pride or superiority but because he remains your brother. He bears you no ill will, his vision of the future may not be very glorious but it is achievable".

"You would have me break the Legions?" snarled Dorn, "Sever all our bonds of fellowship and scatter our forces to the nine vectors?"

"If necessary Sir" stated Pollux resolutely.

"Necessity?" said Rogal, "Malcador and his ilk used to say that, I despised it then and I despise it now. None of them understood what we were struggling to preserve, nobody understands what I am fighting for now."

"I do understand my Lord", said Dantalion softly, "You are an idealist; it was what gave you the strength to stand when all else seemed lost. All your sons continue to hold those ideals higher than their own lives, but the Iron Cage has shown us that our methods are outdated. To preserve our ideals we must accept that the universe has changed and adapt to meet it".

"Guilliman overestimates the effectiveness of his Chapters" growled Dorn turning his back on the marines, "I have run the analysis, in another three hours the Traitors would have regrouped and utterly crushed his mongrels."

"With respect Sir" said Pollux "The Chapter system is not intended for mass battles or attrition warfare. It is designed for rapid strikes and the destruction of critical objectives. Hit and run doing maximum damage and withdrawing before the enemy can respond, the fusion of what is best in all the Legions' philosophies."

Rogal Dorn stood for long seconds gazing at the wreckage of his chambers thinking upon his methods and where they had led him. Then he looked up and stared at the stained glass rendition of the Emperor, for the time in seven years he allowed himself to ask the question; What would his Father do?

Slowly the Primarch said, "There would have to be… safeguards, provisions made should we meet a foe beyond one Chapter's ability to match".

"A failsafe protocol?" asked Pollux.

"A Last Wall" replied Dorn firmly, "To hold against the ultimate enemy".

"A most wise decision Sir" said Dantalion the relief evident on his face".

"Very well" said Dorn some of the fire returning to his eyes at last, "Send an astropathic message to Roboute; tell him I shall meet him on Terra to discuss this Codex Astartes".

"Yes sir" said Pollux "The men will be heartened to hear that you are resuming command".

Dorn around sharply, "I was always in command" he reprimanded his Captains, "However I allowed my emotions to cloud my judgement, never again. I shall return to the iron discipline demanded of us by the Emperor as will my Legion... my Chapter".

"Very good Sir" said Pollux secretly pleased to see his Primarchs' spirit returning, "This will be a new beginning for all of us".

"Pollux sound advice as always, go make this happen" Declared Dorn, "Dantalion, I shall remember your words, you truly are an Exemplar of the Fists".

The Captains bowed then turned to leave and begin the rebirth of the Imperial Fists.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16: Age of the Imperium**

The chamber was situated in a minaret situated high in the mountains of the Imperial Palace, it was a grand hall magnificently decorated with a stunning view but that was not what made it remarkable. Like only a handful of such locations its dimensions were scaled to suit a particular order of beings.

It would have been laughable to suggest mortals use it for any function; even Astartes would have seemed childlike trying to use it. Every detail had been perfectly sculpted, right down to the chairs and tables, for the use of only one type of being: Primarchs.

If the intent had been to create a room worthy for the Transhuman masters of mankind it had failed, for the four beings inside radiated presence and majesty that no mere furniture could match. Roboute Guilliman sat in sweeping, elegant robes of state, Vulkan in a plain grey tabard, Corax in his dark armour and Jaghatai Khan in magnificent furs and pelts. They sat together around a table as brothers, sharing a rare vintage from the vineyards of Tallarn, perhaps the last in the galaxy, as they discussed affairs of state.

Guilliman was speaking, sitting back calmly in his chair, "Then we have an agreement, the High Lords will not currently press the issue of Successors Chapters with the Salamanders".

Vulkan nodded and said, "And in return I will limit my forces to Chapter strength".

"And the Gene-seed tithe?" asked Guilliman sipping from his glass.

"Will be honoured" replied Corax "So long as you respect our rights to manage our Chapters as we deem fit".

Guilliman smiled, "I am glad we could reach this compromise, especially after the debacle with Russ".

"Was it that bad?" asked Vulkan.

"Worse" said Guilliman sadly, "I am only glad he stormed out of the Senatorum before any actual bloodshed occured."

"What will you do about him?" asked Corax leaning forward.

"Nothing" said Guilliman.

"Nothing?" said Corax surprised by the Lord of Ultramar's response.

Guilliman waved away his concerns and said, "Russ has always followed his own path, if I press the issue now it will only drive him into rash decisions, we can ill afford another Iron Cage. But give him space and he will come to think it is his own idea, I am confident given time to cool off the Space Wolves will fall into line."

There was a noise from the other end of the table, like the slightest gasp of a breeze or perhaps the smallest snort of derision. Everybody turned to look to where Jaghatai sat, but the Khan of Khans sat regally, completely aloof from the conversation.

After a moment Vulkan turned back and said, "What of the ad hoc formations? The Blackshields I believe some call them".

"A thorny problem" mused Guilliman, "They are too scattered to organise, too divergent to reintegrate and it is an open secret they count splinters of the Traitor Legions among their number".

"So what will the High Lords do?" asked Vulkan,

"The consensus is to offer them status as new Chapters" replied Guilliman, "Their origins will be obscured in Imperial records, in a hundred years nobody will count the discrepancy between the size of the Legions and the number of Chapters active in the Galaxy".

"Will they accept that?" queried Corax.

Guilliman smiled, "Lord Dorn is visiting as many as can be found to impress upon them the seriousness of this. I believe his exact words were They will be Chapter Masters or they will be Dead".

"That sounds like Rogal" said Corax with a cynical smile, "Even when he switches sides he remains uncompromising".

"What of your own mission?" asked Vulkan

Corax sat back "The Dark Angels barely needed convincing to accept the Codex, if anything they seemed eager to divide their forces. Of the Lion's fate they would not speak, there is some mystery there that needs unravelling".

"I can hardly believe he is gone" said Vulkan sadly.

"The Lion was the canniest of us all, I am sure we have not heard the last of him" replied Corax.

"This is a problem for another day" said Guilliman bringing the conversation back on track, "What of the Iron Hands?"

"The hardest part was figuring out who I should have been talking to" declared Corax, "I am not sure even they know who is in charge on Medusa but eventually I found some sort of Clan Council and explained to them the new order. They accepted it as soon as I dropped the name of the Fabricator General into the conversation".

"Excellent" said Guilliman then he looked over to Jaghatai and said, "That only leaves the Blood Angels".

The Khan opened his arms wide and said "They accept".

"Just like that" asked Vulkan with a surprised tone.

Jaghatai seemed unperturbed but said, "One called Amit resisted; called for Rite of Single Combat to decide issue".

The slightest smile creased his lip as he said "Did not take long".

"Then our business here is done, my brothers I propose a toast" said Guilliman raising his glass, "To a new chapter in our history, a fresh beginning for us all".

They raised their glasses and drank to the toast then Corax stood up saying, "I must take my leave now, my Legion will need guidance through this period of transition".

Jaghatai too stood and bowed his head, just enough to indicate fraternity but not enough to imply subservience and then they departed leaving Vulkan and Roboute alone.

Vulkan stood up and wandered over to the armourglass window gazing out over the vast cityscape of the Imperial Palace.

He took in the vista, once soaring minarets and graceful arches would have been laid out before his eyes but now heavy gun turrets and armoured Domjons awaited him. He stood there absorbing everything that had been done to the Emperor's grand vision then said, "Do you think all of this will endure?"

Guilliman walked over and stood beside him saying, "The foundations are fit for purpose, I predict this Imperium will stand for a thousand years".

"A thousand years" said Vulkan forlornly, staring out at the milling crowds far below.

"Ah of course, your unique gift" said Guilliman stealing a glance at his brother, "I did not believe what I witnessed on Macragge, I scarcely believe it now: we are all of us Functionally immortal but you are Practically Immortal. As your sons are so fond of shouting: Vulkan lives"

"It is more than words, it is a Fact".

"I wonder how Father withstood it" said Vulkan, "How did he endure the passing of millennia, the rise and fall of Empires, the knowledge that everyone he met and loved would crumble and pass like ash in the wind".

"Perhaps that is why he started the Great Crusade in the first place" remarked Roboute, "To create a new humanity that no longer needed him, so he could finally allow himself to pass away".

Vulkan looked over to the great soaring tower of the Astronomicon and said, "Now he never will, this strange half-death is as close as he will ever get".

Roboute said "I have often wondered did Father know what he wrought when he made you?"

"That remains unclear" said Vulkan staring at the drifting shadow of a passing orbital plate, "You know how Father was with his secrets, but I am convinced if he did know then it was never his intent. Why make only one of us Perpetual? And why not you or the Lion or Sanguinius?"

Guilliman walked up to his brother and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, "Perhaps to ensure that there would be one eternal guardian to preserve the light, one incorruptible shield against the darkness".

Vulkan shook his head sadly, "He was our Father, but we were never Sons to him, we were weapons, engines of conquest, nothing more. Horus could never accept it but Father walked in eternity and he did so alone".

Guilliman smiled and said, "Sanguinius once remarked to me that had the whole Imperium been Promethean this Heresy could never have happened".

Vulkan lifted his head and hint of light sparkled in his red eyes, "Sanguinius said that?"

Roboute nodded and said, "Even in death he remains the very best of us".

For long minutes the two of them stood there and then Roboute said, "Will you return to Nocturne?"

"For a time" said Vulkan, "My sons need me right now, but they cannot be allowed to become dependent upon me. They must learn to forge their own destiny".

"And after" said Guilliman, "How does one spend eternity?"

It was Vulkan's turn to smile "Unto all things there is a season, the time of legends is passing by, I too shall fade away. The Imperium will forget us and we shall become nothing more than fables told to children".

"On that point I must disagree with you" said Roboute "If there is one thing I am certain of it is that you shall never be forgotten".

And with that the two brothers faced out over Terra and enjoyed the simple pleasure of each other's company.


	17. Chapter 17

**Quoth the Raven**

On the barren world of Deliverance the Ravenspire soared high , towering over the mining complexs and former prison barracks. In an office mid way up Corvus Corax stood with his forehead pressed against the armourglass, it was rare indeed to see him out of armour these days but today he wore a simple robe pale skin exposed to the recycled air.

His mighty plate stood forlornly on its stand, he had told himself he had constantly worn it because he could not risk letting his guard down, now he wondered if it had been a symbol of his denial.

As long as he had kept himself immersed in war he could ignore the guilt of his deeds but now he had time to think and there was no hiding from the consequences of his choices. His face betrayed a world of sorrow and regret, so much lost, so much taken from him and so much he had sacrificed, could he escape the repercussions of his decisions he wondered, should he even try?

Once the Ravenspire would have rung with the sound of armouries and training barracks but for three years now it had been eerily silent, a space designed for the support of a Legion now based a mere Chapter. It was from this window that Corax had stood and watched his Successor Chapters depart, an already depleted force divided and separated forever. He looked out over Deliverance and saw the future unfolding before him, but he was a creature of the past and knew that there was no place in it for him.

The chamber door opened and in walked three three figures with typical Raven Guard abruptness, two were towering bulk of Astartes the third the awkward silhouette of a Mechanicus adept. The first was Branne, Corax's most veteran officer and First Captain of the newly rechristened Chapter. The second was Chief Apothecary Vancant, a long serving if unimaginative officer who had achieved his rank through the time honoured tradition of everyone who was better qualified being dead. The third was Magos Orlandriaz who had spent seventeen years with the Raven Guard helping them rebuild after Istvaan V.

Corax turned to see the officers standing rigidly at attention, Branne held a data-slate in one hand clearly a message of some import.

"Well?" asked Corax,

"Glad tidings Corvus," replied Branne the only Raven Guard left who had the right to call him by his name, "Missives from Terra announcing that the Imperial Assasins have disposed of the Night Haunter, Konrad Curze is dead!"

The Raven Guard had never had an gregarious nature but their relief and joy was obvious to those who knew what to look for. Corvus however did not share their happiness, he paced to his desk and sat down heavily.

"Sir are you not relieved to hear of this? a vile Traitor has been removed from the galaxy" said Vancant.

"You seem to think this somehow ends the threat" replied Corax gravely, "Kurze was broken, demented creature and while he lived he kept his wretched sons bound close to him. Now he is dead they will scatter across the stars, the Night Lords have had gone from having one mad leader to dozens of far more sane commanders"

He turned and stared out the window at the stars, "Kurze was always a broken thing, plagued by visions of darkness and death. But he would go out of his way to make sure they happened, he would will his nightmares into life, then claim no responsibility for his horrors because it was destined to happen. We cannot avoid the responsibility for this, we all knew he was rabid creature, that he could not be trusted but Father commanded us to be silent and we obeyed."

Corax slowly shook his head, "Malacdor's influence no doubt, he was ever the first to claim the end justifies the means, that a broken tool is better than nothing at all. I should have spoken out, told him to his face that the means define the ends".

"Corvus, you cant blame yourself for the actions of a madman and those who sheltered him" spoke Branne,

"Am I really so much better?" asked Corax, "I dropped atomonic charges down on civilians, I slaughtered my way across a galaxy".

"The Tech-Guilds forced that war upon us" declared Branne, "It was the only way".

"It was the easiest way" said Corax, "Father's first lesson to me was that lasting peace could not be achieved without bloodshed, I should have thought about the consequences. Then and later".

At this point Orlandiaz stepped forward and interjected, "Consequences are exactly what we are here to brief you on"

"The aberrant marines?" asked Corax looking round sharply

"As we feared" answered Vancant, "We always knew the mutations were progressive, that they would get worse, but now the affliction has reached their neural pathways."

"Hef?" asked Corax

"He howls his madness at the walls and tries to gut anyone who approaches him" said Vancant sadly.

"Then our last hope for them is gone" Corax lamented "This is my fault"

"Corvus you were not responsible for the flawed gene-tech" argued Branne, looking at Orlandriaz.

"It was my command" said Corax, "My decision. I cannot evade responsibility for this"

Branne and Vancant shared a worried look.

"What is it?" asked Corax noticing their hesitance.

"Sir there is another problem" said Vancant with a nervous edge entirely unsuited for an Astartes, "Our latest recruits are reporting… difficulties. The apothecarions are experiencing unacceptably higher rates of implant rejection. There are also abnormalities in several organs leading to albinism and defects in the Betchers gland."

"How compromising is this" asked Corax pointedly.

"Very" answered Orlandriaz, "Quite frankly if dividing into Chapters had not reduced our recruitment efforts then we would already be past the point of no return for sustainability. As it is projections show that within four to five generations we shall struggle to maintain even a mere one thousand marines."

"Were not the only ones" butted in Branne, "We have had contact from the Raptors, the Revillers and the Black Guard. They too are experiencing significant difficulties, whatever happened must have occurred before the Legion was split down into Chapters."

"How could this happen?" asked Corax turning a penetrating gaze upon Vancant and Orlandriaz, "Was the tainted gene-seed from Ravendelve not destroyed as I ordered? Or some contaminant escaped the sealed laboratories?"

"The gene-tech was indeed destroyed my lord" said Vancant sharing a guilty look with Orlandriaz, "However there were certain procedures, certain processes discovered in its creation that could be adapted to expand our existing stockpiles."

"You used this on our regular gene-seed?" roared Corax leaping to his feet towering over the assembled officers.

"We were desperate!" yelled Vancant, "After Ravendelve was shut down we needed more Marines to fight the Traitors and rebuilding the Legion was not a matter of years but decades."

Corax sank back, "And so it seems I am not the only one who has sins to atone for" he whispered.

Orlandriaz stepped forward "Primarch Corax, there may yet be a way to repair the damage, if we were to take the Abberants apart at a genetic level we could trace the defects. A full vivisection…"

"Magos Orlandriaz" growled Corax, "Your work for the Raven Guard is appreciated, but your continued presence is not. You have twenty four hours to vacate Deliverance or it is you who shall be vivisected."

He swept past the shocked Magos and went to his armour stand, taking up a plain and functional bolt pistol. "Sir" asked Branne nervously, "What are you doing?"

"Taking responsibility" answered Corax as he walked towards the chamber hatch, "I can do no more for my afflicted sons save end their suffering. I owe them that much."

Vancant cried "My Lord we can still correct this, reopen the laboratories, restart the eugenic programs, we can start all over again!"

Corax turned at the door and said, "Nevermore".


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18 Sirocco**

The hall was dug into an ancient cavern , its Baalite red stone walls illuminated by flaming torches, built into those walls were long benches creating a large amphitheatre. Upon those benches were thousands of transhuman warriors clad in arterial red tabards all talking and shouting in good nature creating a tidal swell of noise. Yet to those with eyes to see there were signs of deep currents in the throng, fists clenched white, undertones of angry growls in their voices and eyes that darted to pulsing veins, all hints of discord in their hearts that refused to settle.

They were the IXth Legion and they were here to witness history unfold.

At the centre of the amphitheatre was a sand covered duelling circle dominated by an ornate podium. To one side stood two figures in plain red armour on the other two in white and on the podium was a single marine in artificer armour chased with gold. He was Raldoron, commander of the Blood Angels, his armour was perfectly restored but his face would never recover the tears of grief he had shed when his liege lord died.

Raldoron was addressing the crowd his clear voice carrying across the space without need of vox pickup, the crowd listened impatiently as he concluded a long winded speech with the words, "Thus today we shall decide how the IXth Legion shall respond to this Second Founding, whether to acquise and be divided into Chapters or stand in defiance. Through right of single combat shall we determine our future and Blood shall tell."

He turned to the red clad figures and declared, "Amit the Flesh Tearer, as the challenger you have right to speak first, have you anything to say?"

Amit stood in battered plate, chipped and scored from battle, his stubborn refusal to polish his armour even for ceremonial occasions was a testament to his belligerence. He growled "Get on with it" staring at his foes. Raldoron turned to the other figures and said, "Friends, as the challenged party do you have anything to say?"

They were as perfectly poised as one would expect from the Vth Legion, but one of them was strength incarnate, his master crafted armour as white as mother of pearl and the curved Tulwar blade at his side sharp as a razors kiss. He radiated power and vitality, every fibre proclaiming his grace and majesty for here was general born to lead men up to the gates of hell itself and beyond. Even in the vast amphitheatre he dominated the space for he was an elemental force, he was the Sirocco wind made flesh, he was the Warhawk, the master of the Ordu; he was Jaghatai Khan.

However it was the lesser marine who stepped forward and spoke for him, "The Khagan desires Harmony between brothers, he offers you one last chance to apologise for your grievous insult and bow to destiny".

Amit threw back his head and let out a short bark of a laugh, "Ha, Tutego you can tell him if he wants to see an apology he can carve it across my cold, dead hearts".

Tutego bowed deeply and said "As you wish, so shall it be".

Then Amit turned to where his second was standing, who looked nervous and said, "You don't honestly think you can beat him do you? He is a Primarch"

Amit grinned, "I don't have to beat him Kaphka, I just have to make hm bleed, burst that bubble of pomposity and all this Second Founding nonsense goes away."

He turned to a waiting servitor and picked up his weapon.

Kaphka stared, "You can not be serious " he exclaimed.

In his hands Captain Amit held a massive two-handed chainblade, an Eviscerator, as heavy as a grown man. It was a weapon of slaughter, brutal and unsubtle, good for nothing but rending and butchering whatever stood in front of the wielder. Only an honourless cur would think of bringing one to a duel.

"This might even the odds" grinned Amit.

He took up his place at the edge of the duelling circle and Jaghatai Khan stood serenely on the other. Then Raldoron held up one hand and declared, "The duel will begin on the count of three. One...". As soon as the word left his mouth Amit hurled himself forward, sweeping his heavy eviscerator down, the Khan had clearly anticipated his cheating for his Tulwar was already moving to deflect the stroke. He surely must have anticipated it because nothing could otherwise have moved that fast.

Amit threw himself into the attack, launching a flurry of harsh chopping blows. He knew he was hopelessly outclassed in skill, strength and speed, the only chance he had at levelling the field was his fury. His blows were harsh, unsubtle things but the rage behind them lent him power beyond his ken.

He gave way entirely to the darkness within snarling and spitting with every attack, channelling all his hate and despair, he opened the dam gates on his sorrow and let it all out. Once more he felt the pain of betrayal, the hatred of the Traitor and the fury of revenge course through him. He saw the bodies of those he had slain, those he would admit to and those whose deaths would never pass his lips. He vented his frustration at the heretics' blasphemies, their treason with fell powers and their refusal to simply lie down and die.

Worst of all though was the memory of seeing his angelic Primarch's body, broken and spent: he would fly no more.

The Khan moved gracefully backwards his Tulwar describing a sublime dance of parry and deflection, diverting each blow just enough to miss him. His footwork was impeccable always putting him at the best position, minimising the angles of attack. Amit cut low but the silver Tulwar was there to meet it, he slashed upwards but the Kahn twisted and the blow missed him by hairsbreadth, a downward cut was deflected just out of alignment and a lunge side-stepped at the last instant.

Amit descended into his deepest rage, channelling it all, he was a whirlwind of carnage, never had he moved so swiftly or so surely and the torrent of blows fell like hail. Attack upon attack, blow after blow with no thought for defence or self-preservation, a dance of death that no living thing should be able to survive. The crowd of Blood angels cheered and raised their fists, chanting Amit's name over and over.

Amit however was not so cocky, penetrating his rage a sickening realisation was growing. Despite all his frenzy, despite his rage and carnage, he had not managed to land even a single blow on his foe and the Khan had yet to even try to counter attack. Then Jaghatai moved, angling his Tulwar to deflect Amit's eviscerator and extend out, pulling him out of alignment for a single heartbeat.

The riposte came out of nowhere; there was no tensing of the muscles, no shift in footwork, no adjustment of his grip, one instant Jaghatai was parrying the next he was scything forward, reality seemed to blink and the stroke simply Was. The Tulwar sailed past Amit's extended blade, stoked on hyperadrenaline as he was, he swore he could see it move in slow motion light glinting off its razors edge as it majestically descended upon his skull. Had the Khan chosen to use the cutting edge Amit's skull would have been dissected in two but the Warhawk judged his timing to perfection curving the Tulwar around so the flat of the blade caressed the Flesh Tearers' head.

The force of the attack smashed Amit off to one side, sending him spinning into the air, he hit the ground and rolled over and over skidding helplessly out of control. His head swam and lurid purple colours flashed before his eyes as the universe span around him. This was impossible he was an Astartes, engineered for war, it should be impossible to disorientate him but here he was flopping around on the ground like a helpless babe. Amit was vaguely aware of voices around him, something about a victor and a pledge fulfilled, but none of it made sense to him.

Slowly the world stopped spinning and he made out two figures kneeling over him, one was Kaphka and the other Tutego.

Amit sat up trying not to be sick, a sensation he thought had been removed from him during his gene-crafting, and saw the Khan standing serenely talking to Raldoron,

He put one hand to his head and said, "How long did I last?"

"Thirty-eight seconds" replied Kaphka.

"Great blessings upon you," declared Tutego, "The Khagan likes you!"

"What" said Amit struggling to get his feet to move.

"The Khagan only lets people he truly likes last longer than thirty heartbeats" Tutego replied with a broad grin.

Amit did not know how to respond to that so got to his feet, feeling as weak as mortal man and gritted his teeth, it was the defeated combatant's duty to present the laurels of victory to the winner. A bitter tradition that Sanguinius had frowned upon but ironically Amit himself had insisted be maintained. He swallowed his pride and walked over to the podium to collect the wreath, then he furiously shoved it into the Khagan's hand.

Jaghatai Khan accepted the laurels but held them loosely as if he had no need of such trinkets to prove his worth, indeed it somehow seemed improper to tarnish such regal armour with something so cheap and tawdry.

The Khan regarded Amit for long seconds then said, "Fury is your gift".

"Thank you Lord" ground out Amit through gritted teeth.

"Take care, Flesh Tearer for it is also your weakness" said Jaghatai, "Your fury rules you, unless you turn from this path then soon it will consume you".

"Suppress my rage" laughed Amit darkly, "You are not the first to say that".

"Man can no more command his passions than one can command the Sirocco winds. You must make it your ally; fury and control in perfect balance" said Jaghatai, then he looked around to take in the whole amphitheatre a slight crease of concern in his brow, "Tell the Children of Sanguinius this: The warrior who knows Harmony in battle shall live to know Harmony in life".

And with those cryptic words he turned and swept away leaving Amit to wonder what the Khan had seen in his kin's hearts.


	19. Chapter 19

**Dark Ascension**

The plain was a blasted wasteland, devoid not only of life but also the possibility of life. The sky above a sickening medley of ever changing colours, if a man were to stare too long then he would swear he could see opening mouths and blinking eyes, but of course by then it would be too late for the sanity of the viewer. Instead of a sun there was a gaping vortex of nothingness, the vast black hole that sat at the very centre of the Eye of Terror.

Across the plain trudged a convoy of figures, small basic servitors guarded by standard Castellan class battle automata but at their head marched a figure that was anything but basic or standard.

He was a colossus carved out of dark iron; his every inch clad in thick plates and wrought metal. He carried a massive hammer in one hand and on the other arm was a trio of wide barrelled guns. His face could have been carved from granite and was set in a permanent scowl that was testament to betrayals, those wrought against him and those he had wrought himself.

To ask how long he had been walking was the wrong question here in the Eye of Terror as was where he was going. Why he was walking was everything here and he knew as long as he kept putting one foot in front the other then his goal would find him.

The horizon was blank and featureless then without any transition or variation he was suddenly stamping his boots down on basalt as he stepped onto a wide dais. It was a circle, and at ninety degree angles were four tall columns each marked with the dark runes of Chaos. Between the third and fourth pillar, at the mathematically perfect angle to represent Pi, was a fifth column broken in two and marked with the rune of entropy.

The colossus pulled up sharply and was confronted by four figures each standing before one of the four pillars. Before the fifth there was only an empty mask, one half black the other white.

One of the apparitions was a large warrior in brass plate with an axe that dripped blood and the face of a dog, "I am the Executioner of Khorne" it growled. The next was an willowy creature with gossamer skin and curving hips, its lips were ruby red and it had a large horn arising out the side of its head, "I am the Temptress of Slannesh" it whispered huskily. The third was simply a man in a plain robe yet with large multi-coloured wings rising from his shoulders and eyes that stars birthed and died within, "I am the Harbinger of Tzeenecth" it said in multiple overlapping voices of men and women. The last resembled a large toad, with rotting skin, sores and festering pustles, it squatted in a puddle of filth yet it had the hands of a man and carried a large book and quill, "I am the Tallyman of Nurgle" it gurgled in a phlegmy tone.

The colossus stood before them assessing each one than said, "You know who I am", it was not a question but a statement of fact.

"Indeed" said the Harbinger, "The breaker of men".

"The slayer of his own kin" barked the Executioner.

"The bringer of tears" sighed the Temptress.

"The destroyer of hope" croaked the Tallyman.

"Perturabo" they chanted together in praise, mockery and scorn, "Perturabo, Perturabo".

"I have come to bargain" spat the Primarch as if the words offended him.

"What does he seek from us?" growled the Executioner, its axe dripping blood.

"He seeks what all mortals seek" hissed the Harbinger fluttering its feathered wings.

"Ascension to Daemonhood" gurgled the Tallyman picking at its sores, "Immortality itself".

"But first you must choose a Patron" giggled the Temptress tracing a finger down its body, "One of the great Four to gift you with power undreamt of".

"So this is the part where you each try to trick me into enslaving myself to your masters and I reject you one by one with insipid morals" sneered Perturabo, "Pathetic, I have no patience for your games".

The Harbinger frilled its feathers and cried, "Have more respect for your betters, child of the anathema!"

Perturabo's arms shot forward and grasped the Daemon around the neck; dark runes flared along his vambrace and over his fist emitting a corrupted red light. The Harbinger screamed and beat its fists on the Primarch's armour but its flesh sizzled wherever it touched the rune worked metal. Perturabo leered and said, ""Do you feel that? The disconnection from the Warp, cutting you off from its sensations, from its bounty of suffering and woe. This is not pain, this is literally nothingness, the one thing your kind can not tolerate. Underestimate me again and I will make it eternal".

"You dare challenge the Dark Gods" shrieked the Temptress.

"Shut your mouth" snarled Perturabo, "Lorgar may be guillible enough to buy your petty lies but I am no fool. Your kind are parasites, leaching off humanity's anguish and sorrow, stirring up passions so you can feast like gluttons. This is the reality of Chaos: you need humanity more than it needs you".

"And yet despite all that you still have the one thing I need".

Then he threw the smoking Harbinger to the ground and its flesh began to knit back together. "This is not how one barters with the darker powers!" shouted the Executioner.

"Save it for Magnus" Perturabo said, "I am not here for your amusement. I am going to tell you what I am going to give you and then you will give me what I want".

"Then tell us what tribute it is you offer" coughed the Tallyman.

Perturabo gestured and from behind him trudged forward a double line of servitors, hundreds of them each carrying a cryo-chest hissing venting steam from its coolant system. The chests were marked with runes of Bio-tech and fleshweaving announcing the contents: gene-seed.

The Temptress threw back its head and laughed gaily, "He understands nothing of the Neverborn!"

"We already have legions pledged to our cause" coughed the Tallyman, "Thousands of devoted, faithful subjects willing to give us everything".

"You offer what we already have" barked the Executioner.

"Surely you can do better" hissed the Harbinger.

Perturabo snarled back at them and smashed Forgebreaker down on the basalt dais declaring, "This is not just gene-seed and it was not given faithfully. This was torn unwillingly from my victims, from those preening fools I slaughtered at the Iron Cage. Each and every one contains the potential of a Space Marine yet unborn, and the generation after them and the generation after them. Think upon it, how many worlds would those potential marines save? How many lives would be better for having them in the universe?"

The Iron Lord swung his arms wide to take in the hundreds of caskets in his entourage, "That is what I present to you, all those imminent lives snuffed out, countless nascent souls consumed, boundless futures changed, endless potential left to rot".

"Tell me; is that not worth my price?" said Perturabo.

The four daemons stood dumbfounded, then the Temptress licked its lips with a forked tongue and purred "Perhaps you do understand the neverborn after all".

"Very well" said the Harbinger, "Your price is acceptable".

"The strength of the Warp undivided shall be yours" growled the Executioner.

"Prepare yourself for ascension" gurgled the Tallyman.

"But beware" hissed the Harbinger as the Warp split open and an ocean of liquid power cascaded down, "This will not end your pain".

"This reality has brought me nothing but pain", growled Perturabo fists clenched as he prepared to receive the power of the Warp, "Why should the other be any different".

Then the ocean hit the ground and Perturabo the man ceased to exist and in his place something far greater and far fouler was born.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20: Guilliman's Fate**

On the muddy plains of Thessala two bitter foes clashed in a frenzy of vegeance and hatred. Bulky warriors in armour of blue and gold fought sickening monsters in armour painted lurid hues and revolting shades of bodily fluids. One side was the avatar of all human virtues, the other the worst nightmares made flesh, mutated and twisted in body and soul.

At the centre of the carnage clouds of mist and swirling dust obscured the epic duel being played out, the most legendary of events lost to all witnesses save the two participants. One of them was the Eagle of the East, the Lord Commander of the Imperium, architect of the Second Founding: Roboute Guilliman himself.

His plate was chipped and scored over every inch, testament to the skill of the combatants, yet no fatal blow had yet pierced the Armour of Reason. On one hand he bore a massive power fist, the famous Hand of Dominion, yet it was nothing compared to the flaming sword in his other hand: the legendary Sword of the Emperor.

As he swung and stabbed trailing fires lit the air casting everything into brilliant gold, yet the light did not seem to illuminate his opponent which drank the light like water down a drain. The thing Guilliman fought would appear to most to be a shimmering whirlwind of slashing blades and purple whips, but for those with eyes enhanced enough to see it would have been apparent that he fought a single winged being with multiple arms and a massive scaly tail instead of legs. It was never still ever moving and swaying like dancer as it rained blows down, never with the same blade twice and never with the same strokes.

Guilliman was machine like, blocking, thrusting parrying and attacking with metronomic timing, any other foe would have been laid low by now but the dancing monster whipped to and fro evading every blow. From the depths its being echoed a voice, a human voice entirely unsuited to the monstrosity, saying "Roboute you are ever so predictable, this is almost exactly like your old strategic simulations!"

The Lord of Ultramar said nothing, merely increasing the pace of his attacks. The monster cried out again, "What?! Have you nothing to say to your beloved brother?"

Guilliman snarled in anger and without pausing in his attack broke his silence to yell, "You are not Fulgrim! You are the thing that took the Phoenician from us!"

The Daemon Prince laughed and counterattacked with a slim rapier as it retorted, "You would like to believe that wouldn't you, it would be so much easier, but the truth is I am more Fulgrim now than I ever was before."

The Lord of Ultramar caught the blade in the Hand of Dominion and snapped it in two as he cried, "You are filth, Fulgrim was a paragon of virtue, ever striving for Perfection".

"Exactly" cried the thing that was once Fulgrim, "Perfection is not a state of being but a state of striving; now I am the quest itself. Ever growing, ever progressing and ever seeking greater heights of sensation and pleasure."

Guilliman feinted with the sword of the Emperor, its flames billowing out to drive Fulgrim back, as he yelled, "Perfection is achieved not when there is nothing left to add but rather when there is nothing left to take away!"

With those words it seemed Guilliman touched a nerve for Fulgrim roared in anger and raised all his many arms high for a single deadly blow. Yet with the second of time he had bought Roboute raised the Hand of Dominion high and slammed it hard into the ground. The shockwave made the ground itself explode upwards and Fulgrim was thrown off balance, unable to compensate with only a tail, he landed heavily dropping most of his weapons, trapping his tail under his own weight.

The Avenging Son strode forward wasting not a moment, he had seen too much horror to grant his foe mercy and gloating would not improve the outcome, it was not Practical. Sadly his mistake was to think that his rival was governed by the same physical laws that he was: Fulgrim's body flared incandescent with the power of the Warp and his tail passed impossibly through his own torso as if it were mist. He swept his tail across the ground and caught Guilliman in the back of the legs.

Roboute was thrown backwards, the sword the Emperor flying from his grip and sailing far to land in the heavy crowds of warriors beyond the mists. Fulgrim was on him in a heartbeat, tail pinning down the Hand of Dominion, while he held a flint like knife with too large a grip to his brothers' throat.

"Do you know what this is?" Fulgrim mocked, "This is the Anathame, the weapon that laid low the Warmaster. With one twitch of my hand I could end your life and condemn your sons to an eternity of defeat and stagnation."

"You are wrong" spat Roboute from the ground, "My sons would never allow my death to defeat them."

Fulgrim threw back his head and laughed, "Ha, your sons cling to your teachings like lost lambs, they will never let go of you and the very memory of you will doom them to stagnation and rot. You never grasped that only the immortal can live to see evolution and progress be achieved."

"No! That is the great lie of Chaos" spat Guilliman, "It promises advancement and growth but brings only stagnation. Immortality is the enemy of progress for without death there can be no change. I have taught my sons all I can, now they must learn that there are other philosophies to study, that my Codex is not the end of wisdom but merely its beginning. You may kill me but my sons will only grow greater for it, they will learn from my mistakes and rise from the ashes to become nobler than either of us can imagine."

"Your right" hissed Fulgrim brow furrowed in vexation "I can see the future unfolding in the Warp, without you to hold them back your sons will indeed evolve and improve. Your death will inspire your Successor Chapters onto new heights; the Ultramarines will lead them to usher in a new golden age for the galaxy."

Then he grinned, "Let us do something about that."

With those words he slashed the Anathame across Guilliman's throat, the blow was perfectly judged, slashing the Primarch's jugular vein but leaving the head attached and vocal cords untouched. With a laugh Fulgrim flapped his wings and spiralled into the sky, sinking into the Warp with a swirl of sickening colour.

As the mists dispersed shapes in blue armour raced across the fields, spraying mud everywhere in their deperation to reach their Lord and Master. First to the Primarch's side was Apothecary Vellain, clasping his gauntlets to Roboute's throat in a futile attempt to stem the bleeding.

Roboute fixed his eyes upon Vellian's face and clasped his entire pauldron in one great fist as he gasped, "Let. Me. Die."

Apothecary Vellian rocked back in shock and looked about him at his circling brothers as they enveloped in in a sea of blue plate.

"What did he say" asked one of them.

Vellian looked down at his dying Primarch and made a decision that would determine the history of mankind, "Lord Guilliman orders us to save him. You" he cried pointing at a random marine, "Find a Teleport beacon and You signal Macragge's Honour, tell the Apothecarion to ready a stasis field generator."

The marines hurried away, desperate to preserve their lord's life at any cost while Vellian looked down at his gene father and declared loudly, "Have no fear my Lord you will not die here."

" We will never let you die."


End file.
